Danso Morrison

Yesterday I turned 21 years old. In Mississippi, USA, that means I’m officially an adult in every possible way, which feels both significant and hilariously absurd. The world hasn’t shifted, but I’ve been told it’s mine now, for better or worse.

First thing I did was walk into a liquor store, just because I could. I didn’t even buy anything; I just wandered the aisles, looking at the labels like they held some kind of wisdom. I half-expected some grand moment, like the universe would crack open and hand me the answers to everything, but all I got was a suspicious side-eye from the clerk.

Driving back home, I thought about the things I could do now. I could go to a casino, put down everything I’ve got on a roulette wheel, and walk out richer or flat broke. I could sign up for one of those ridiculous hotdog-eating contests they always have on TV. Who’s going to stop me? I could lease an apartment and cover the walls in neon green paint or hang up pictures of frogs wearing tiny cowboy hats. No landlord could tell me no.

I thought about driving out to the coast, hopping on a shrimp boat, and leaving Jackson, Mississippi, altogether. Maybe I’d make it to New Orleans. Maybe I’d end up somewhere even further, where the air smells like salt and everything feels new.

It’s funny, though, because for all the grand possibilities running through my head, I ended up back at my uncle’s garage, drinking cheap beer with my cousin. We talked about nothing in particular, about the football team and the potholes on State Street and that old man who’s always sitting outside the gas station with his harmonica. I didn’t feel older or wiser. Just the same.

And maybe that’s the real absurdity of it all: that turning 21 doesn’t make you a different person. It just means the world’s a little more open, if you’re willing to step into it. I’m still figuring out if I am.