Here, Twanda forewarns the readers and emphasizes the significance of personal independence; be wise about your choices, or one day you might live to regret them. It’s an interesting break from the rest of the story towards the end, given the celebratory nature of everything that precedes it. However, what really stands out to me is the way Shange blurs the lines between different authorial perspectives here. Although the second-person “you” is traditionally reserved as a way for a text to directly address its reader, it seems pretty clear from the sentence’s content that “you” is actually Twanda—she’s the one “standing across some altar” by herself. By placing both the reader and the narrator on the same plane of existence, I’d like to imagine that Shange is making a statement about how Twanda resembles an alternate version of us—a regretful person that we may or may not one day become, but can still find joy, solace, and love in despite our past mistakes.

This passage reminds me of an idea from Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes: “the phonatory system is the same as the osculatory system” (141). In other words, speech and kissing are verbs attached to a person’s lips—both actions are essential to the erotic encounter. Here, I would add that there’s something surprising about Twanda screaming out in French—a language I’m not aware of Shange really writing in—perhaps signifying a surprising, foreign, or new form of knowledge.

Given that the shape of the necklace by Patricia Viles that accompanies this piece is geometrically symmetrical, I really adore this moment. It seems as if Twanda is not necessarily bothered by “symmetry,” per se, but rather “sameness”—lack of individuality. Twanda reveals that she wants her life to be surrounded by the unexpected (enough of that old cliché!), reaffirming her commitment to grandiosity.

There's something erotic and self-gratifying about Twanda slipping her ring over “the wrong” finger to mark her independence. Perhaps the ring finger represents a “phallic” symbol of patriarchal power of sorts. Indeed, a traditional heterosexual marriage linearly presumes child rearing and motherhood for the newly-turned bride. Given this brief historical context, the movement from the ring on Twanda’s “independent second finger” to her “incurable delights” she feels on her “labia, vulva, clitoral sambas, etc.”—sexual organs not meant for reproductive purposes, but only focused on female jouissance—then becomes an act of bodily reclamation. Instead of confining herself to typical patriarchal standards of a traditional marriage, Twanda’s wedding to herself transforms into a physical erotic sensation focused on female bodily pleasure.

This description reminds me of “Dream of Pairing,” an earlier piece in Ridin’ the Moon in Texas. In this poem, the narrator describes an imaginary love affair between herself and a stranger whose “face changes but is always full of love / for me.” This specific line reminds me of the way “Dream of Pairing ends”: with a “stranger who visits me in my dreams / but that would be too personal / he's never told me his name.” Much like Twanda’s relationship with this random taxi driver, there’s still a distance —an unknowing—between the narrator and her beloved. Moreover, I’m interested in how both of the artworks that accompany “Twanda” and “Dream of Pairing” are three-dimensional works of art. However, I would note that Martin Puryear’s piece in “Dream of Pairing” is an incomplete loop, whereas Patrice Viles’ work is an ornamental and flourishing piece of jewelry. Perhaps the visual difference between the two artworks also signify the narrative difference between the two pieces; in order to complete “the self,” one cannot simply depend on romantic desire ("Dream of Pairing")—they must also seek self-created unity ("Twanda").