1.
The beginning.
A little Black girl sits at her desk.
A pencil in hand, books stacked aside her.
The pencil races across the lined page,
unable to keep up with the story
inside her. Music blasts outside of her
mind, building four walls for her to belong.
Creation, a silly thing that entertains her.
Tolerance, her greatest enemy, her
greatest hope. “I want to be a director,”
she said. “What a nice dream to have,” they thought.
How she wishes now, she could return to
that house that protected her. And kept her
soul safe from everyone who wanted her
silence instead of her dream.
3.
The birth of a habit.
Tears are a message to the self. They are
there to remind you that a story exists
inside you. As they roll down your cheeks,
the microphone echoes. But what happens
when you force the microphone off, yourself?
You cried and cried and no one heard you. But
now, I am sitting beside you, holding
your hand as you cry on the couch in your
mother’s arms. I bear witness to your ongoing
cries and recurrent hiccups. I stare at
your tear-stained face, desperate for help.
I think of you often. Especially
when I long for a good cry, and you don’t
budge.
5.
Writer’s profile.
My origin is found in the palm of
my six-year-old hand. The spiral in my
curl and the rhythm of my words akin.
Many generations bear witness to
the little black girl who mastered the
forbidden pen. An agent of love and
grace, and looking glass for girls of her race.
Inspiration between the television
screen and her small eyes at Whitley,
Moesha, and Ashley’s prime. Her
awe-struck gaze, a paradigm for girls who
naughtily play in their headspace. Who
dream dreams they are told to run from and
create lives they are told are not their own.
2.
On love. On healing.
If you only knew that one day, my love,
You would stare love right in the face.
It would be so sweet and safe. We’d give up
The personal space that we protected
at all costs. Except this time it’s our decision.
I think you would like him, actually.
He’s not too loud or arrogant, you have
never liked that. He’s gentle and kind,
Some of your favorite character traits.
We built up a house to keep bad people
from entering. But he’s not bad, I promise.
But I don’t blame you for being scared.
We can start easy. Brick by brick. Stone
by stone. And then we can build a new home.
4.
I am Black girlhood.
I’ve been birthed out of a Black womb.
When I was younger, I wanted so badly
to believe that my mother was other.
Yet, she’s Black in all her ways. She bathed me
in neck rolls and pursed lips, with a side of
eye. She rocked me in her tight grip, against
her heart that beat so loudly for me. I
was clothed in my great-grandmother’s closet,
and fed with my granny’s cooking. I was
combed with politeness, respectability,
and womanness. I wear respect yaself on my back, and
“mhm, whateva” all over my face.
I am Black girlhood before I am
American.
Leave a Reply