The kids were jumping on the trampoline. I was amazed by how far we have come. Baby was strolling gingerly towards them and away from them, in his yellow green shirt that read how he was a ‘little man with big plans.’ He truly was. Today’s plans, dirt and all sorts of ways to become one with dirt. Dreams of one day jumping on the trampoline too we’re on his mind. On this first day of Fall, in the second year of a pandemic that ceases to end, I am sitting here staring at how far my family and I have come. Baby is still walking back and forth towards his siblings jumping on a trampoline and away from them. A cool breeze, so gentle like a baby’s kiss, gently kisses my face this evening. Everything seems sterling to me. The green of the grass. The blue of skies. Even the white of clouds have a certain aura to them that personifies my aura these days. I am walking in light and there is no turning back. My mother-in law spent her days during the early parts of summer tending to a garden. It was also her way of coping with the illness of her only daughter that would come to do consume our entire summer. Today I stared deeply at how her garden continues to flourish, continues to remain glorious, even in her absence. Angie would have been proud of her. Angie would have loved her light.
We all know light when we see it. Light is peace. It is peace for the mother, the wife, the teacher, the daughter, the sibling, the awakened public, suddenly rising from their comatose state. Luminescent, incandescent, glistening, hers, that glow with a light within are trouble for tortured souls, trouble for those who prefer chaos. And the world is a chaotic place, violent place too, for those rearing and resting in darkness, sly racists too who prefer their structural violence rather than the power of roaring lioness. Still, like a lioness, I choose light for its aura, it’s brilliance, it’s chink, it’s dazzle, it’s ethereal, it’s fire, it’s gleamer, it’s halo, it’s illumination, it’s jewel, it’s kindle, it’s luminosity, it’s morn, it’s nature, it’s optical, it’s prism, it’s queer, it’s radiance, it’s spark, it’s twinkle, it’s upbeat, it’s vividness, it’s wave, it’s x-factor, it’s yellow, it’s zenith. Certain openings for light visited on people are so blazing, so lustrous, so airy, so zestful, so effortless that it must be protected at all cost. It’s not a gift. It’s a necessity. For a city, a people, built on light cannot be hidden. Blaze your light and keep it too at all cost.
I have been writing and deleting the start of an imaginary book yet unwritten. As if afraid to walk into my moonlight. Yet, fear is the last thing on my mind. So I keep writing. I call it ‘Black Mom Light.’ A coming-of age memoir for rising as a black mom from darkness to light. An anti-racist memoir on being a black mother in today’s America. I also call it ‘Brown Mom Listing.’ The second name is from Jacqueline Woodson ephemeral memoir in verse, ‘Brown Girl Dreaming.’ If her memoir were full of poems that were profound and moving, mine, are full of lists, a keep list, equally profound and captivating. I am obsessed with the style of her book that it inspired name number 2. I imagine my keeplists, what you read here every day as listing or the act of putting words, or stories into lists to keep. I also envision them as being focused on what truly matters and keeping that for myself, for yourself, for my people, for your people, for humanity. These lists span my days like a wide bridge, wild butterflies too, forever ready to spread their wings and fly, forever ready to move to new heights, to new places, so many wonders to see, in the words of my daughter, my forever muse.
The thought of what to keep, what to list each given day is a treasure for each passing day. They give me strength for days when none is left. They help me attend to other things too, like my other obsession, grant writing. Every lists carries my heart and my thoughts to somewhere. Maybe flowers. They are also my forever muse , forever brilliant, forever of use. Maybe trees. I have no names for all I see, but they too help me attend to all I need to do. Tall luscious trees and their graceful abundance are bound to make you dance as the make me dance. Maybe my children. My forever muse. Not a day goes by without being caught in their spell, their wants, their blissful gifts, that lift to new abyss. But hidden at the root of all I choose to keep is a desire for legacy, for light, for rising above what society says we should or must do as parents, as professors, as people. Yet for every thing I keep, there are some I still don’t share here. Some written even at the same time. Like the one written right before I shared this one. Those ones are part of what I describe as my extraordinary lists. We are all extraordinary people in the end. No one else exists as me, with thoughts like mine. I would rather I live life in extraordinary ways than ways destined to be ordinary. I wasn’t made of ordinary. So this list is my attempt at that. One keep at a time. The destination remains unknown. We are moving beyond the rigidness of your vision. If this is our first meeting. Welcome. The vision for this keeplist is extraordinary. Every list is in place of the vision society may have for women like me. A keep of sorts, of conversations we are not having, of refusals to be silent. This woman maybe black or brown. But her voice is shrouded in light and with each day, she walks out into moonlight to touch her power.
I asked myself today, a question most mothers ask themselves everyday. How the hell do you do this? Today was the first time in close to three weeks I had a day to myself. Not an entire day, more like four hours for me. I have been running a nonstop marathon even with kids in school. A little after they all went back to school in mid August, they all became sick, one after the other. We thought it was Covid, took a test and it wasn’t. Just a nasty viral bug that meant sleepless nights and restless days. It all finally cleared up over the weekend and today, even my one year old went back to daycare. Just as I left his daycare, I took a deep breath and asked myself those seven letter words, that many mothers ponder everyday. My eyes immediately greeted Dahlia’s planted outside the daycare. A symbol of best wishes. It was as if it wanted to offer some to me. To wish me well at this moment I called my own. How does it swirl in this way I asked, with finely carved petals, that hang together neatly, as if painted by hand. I stopped and stared at them for a brief moment, took in the air and said a little thank you. How the hell do I do it? By his grace. His sheer grace. I am nothing on my own. I shudder to think that I can go through life on my own. We are not meant to do this thing called life alone. That’s how I do it. By his grace and it’s truly sufficient for me.
They call it an eloquent flower. A flower full of eloquence. Poems have been written about it. One by Cummings who described it as love, and how it’s love moves with brightness to all places. We noticed it on a walk this week with by baby. I rarely go for walks these days, but something about the group of people I have been interacting with all week, made me seek air and the sun and light. I see a lot better when I walk. I also reflect better and say prayers of thanksgiving during long walks. I owed my maker one, hence the walk to just reflect on the journey so far, the insights so far and all the people I have met along the way so far. It shouldn’t be this easy, I kept saying. It shouldn’t be that we tell the stories of our why over and over again, almost to infinity and everyone we speak to gets it over and over again. So a walk was due. I need to check my blind spots, to stay humble, to listen and see the world once more for there are truly so many wonders to see, on long walks. Infinity stories being on my mind.
For this walk, our eyes were greeted by Crepe Myrtles. Their bright pink colors were hard to miss. They stood out amidst a row of green short and tall shrubs. I initially ignored them at first and kept walking. It has been a while since I walked and so I was focused. But the colors kept greeting my eyes, as if to say hello. Finally, I gave in and greeted the flower back. I smelt it as always and opened my app to learn a bit more. I have shared in prior posts how I have lived blindly through life not knowing one flower from the next. But since I started to walk in light, all sorts of flowers have become my friends. Crepe Myrtle is about to be my best friend.
Not only are it’s beautiful lush flowers appealing, but per my app, this flower is a symbol of eloquence, good luck too. I was in awe and grew closer to see why. In full bloom, it’s flower petals appear wrinkled but full of rich texture that produce brilliant crumbling spiral patterns. These spirals gather together like a crepe, hence the name Crepe Myrtle. But eloquence don’t stop with the flowers alone. Soon, the flowers will fall and it’s leaves will turn glorious gold, orange, red and purple in fall before falling off. Then, it’s bark completes this flower’s trifecta. The bark on many Crepe Myrtle peels in puzzle patterns to reveal smooth cinnamon or tan colors that glow during winter. All of this combined, helps to symbolize Crepe Myrtle’s eloquence. They also help to tell my never ending keeplist of stories of becoming a mom in light. An infinity story in the making.
On the surface, everything seems fine. A family that I am blessed to call my own for all the love, support and gifts of belonging they provide to me. A job that I am grateful to carve as I want, grateful for when things stay and last or fall off as with passing of time or even failed grant attempts. But when you peel my surface, when you come with me and feel my journey, even peel all my outer layers, then you will understand what rounds my trifecta. I am just coming to terms with it. I am a storyteller in all sense of the word. It’s where I get my eloquence, my reason for being, my persistence, my tenacity, my love, even my drive with life. Every single thing I do has a story connected to it.
Being a mother for example, one of my greatest stories ever told, one some of you may read here on a daily basis. The stories around how me and my greatest joy, my Zobam met and continue to journey through this life keeps me on my knees with gratitude to my maker. He truly saved me. Then there are the stories for how I have navigated pursuing a career in research. To think you can go to school to become a researcher seems unheard of but that’s how I earned my degree at the end for the day. I was literally trained to become a researcher from undergrad even, not in grad school. I owe it to Dr. Cassandra Veney, my very first mentor in undergrad who inspired me to probe deeply too during my days as a McNair scholar. Then of course there their stories from grad schools. Trip to Senegal all paid for by my department, just to get to Senegal and I don’t have a hotel room and I barely spoke French or Wolof. Yet, this trip would forever change me life and inspire me to be a a global health researcher passionate about seeing the world and working with people whether I spoke their language or not.
Then there are the malaria dissertation stories. Even the process of writing my first NIH grant to do this work under the guidance of my doctoral advisor Dr Collins Airhihenbuwa has a story worthy of praises for how he pushed me to become enamored by grantwriting. How I got my first job in Paris at UNESCO following graduation has a story. UNESCO itself has a story I have yet to tell but it shaped my resolve for sustainability. How I worked or lived in Paris for 2+ years has a story. Do you know what it’s like to navigate owning an apartment in a place where you barely speak the language or raising a new baby, my Belle with my mother in-law whom I met for the first time at CDG airport in Paris? The stories are out of this world.
Of course there was a growing young family at that time navigating long distance. We have stories to tell. The ones with my first job upon my return to the US are cringe worthy whenever I think about them. They tried, boy they tried to destroy me but little did they know that greater is he. Then there are the stories of how I mastered grant writing from the king himself, Dr Gbenga Ogedegbe. I owe him a lot for showing me things I never even knew existed within me. Or how I met my partner extraordinaire Dr. Joe Tucker. He is truly on another level when it comes to collaboration. Find your partner with research and you literally find heaven. This blog has been privy to stories of navigating a child on the spectrum and raising black children in America. Even cancer’s sting is now a story I intend to tell fully with all my might.
The eloquence of crepe myrtle personifies my life fully. I choose to live it out now, more brilliantly like never before, more brightly too like an infinity story. These stories are my light. Through light, I will move eloquently, one story at a time, to all places. I am a storyteller and I am inspired by the endless eloquence of Crepe Myrtles.
They were on the floor. All three brothers, head to head. Sister was in the room with her piano teacher Ms. Neva mastering the twinkling star, wondering what it was. I looked at the boys wondering why the floor. They rolled around and around, laughing and smiling away. Shining brightly too like rare diamonds on the ground. They twisted and turned, and twisted some more, oblivious to the dirt all around them, oblivious to the sounds of my pleas too. The ground was all they wanted. Getting up from it was all I wanted.
So I tried to pull them up from the ground, one by one. They all went back to the ground after each successful attempt. I kept pulling them away, trying not to lose my temper or my mind. I was afraid of the ground, afraid they would hurt themselves, afraid that they too would hurt the ground. The carpet was light brown. They are children, boys too. I hate dirt on carpets, on lightly colored ones, or any colorless one. They love dirt, big or bright, dark or small. Any that will make you curse under your breath. It’s the reason why we have no carpets in our home. We just removed the beige ones that came with the home we bought. The carpet lasted 20 years or so prior to our ownership. With us, my boys and their love for red volcanic experiments or any colorful merriment, it lasted 2 days.
Carpets aside, we are still in a pandemic. If you believe the virus is airborne, then chances are that no child should lay on the ground. Yet, my boys adored the ground. Laid on it too, like it was the finest of cottons. After my pleas to get up fell on deaf ears, I paused and looked at them, looked at the ground too with intent. I took in the moment, took in the laughter, took in the love fully on display. No wonder they were oblivious to my pleas. In life, we will pass through dirt, we may be on the ground too with dirt. Diamonds are all the time. But still, we can shine brightly even in the middle of all the dirt around us.
My boys taught me that, rolling and laughing on the ground. They call it black boy joy. I call it love. To see it on full display among boys oblivious to the dirt around them, oblivious to the ground, oblivious to the world, is breathtakingly magical. We need more love. Here, they are oblivious to the world. Here, they have defeated the world. Here, they have rolled away the ground. Here, they choose to listen to their laughter, listen to joyful sound. Here, they returned back to dirt, return back to earth. Here, they uncovered the beginning of knowledge. Here they use it to teach the power of love, the power of being loved. Here, they love, love and love, loves them too. Here, they love being together, laughing together too, even on the ground with dirt all around. Here, they love those around them, each other and that is all that matters. I will cherish this keep.
My daughter got a very intricate dragon kite for her birthday last month. It was complex to me. It has 2 large green and black wings. Four long red ribbons lined the 2 edges of the wings. There were black wires that one had to put end to end so the wings stood in place. All of this were attached to a long white rope that kids can use to fly the kite in the sky. I assembled the kite for them awhile back. At least I managed to put the black wires end to end so the wings can stay in place. That was all I could do. I tried to unruffled the rope so they could fly the kite but to no avail. All my attempts meant that nothing flew in the end. Not the dragon nor it’s lavish red ribbons. That is until this morning.
I watched from the window as my daughter and her brothers took a stab at making the kite fly. They worked on the wings, fixed the dragons tail, even strung the rope as best as the could. Then she ran. My daughter ran and the kite, I couldn’t fly, flew right behind her. Her brothers were delighted. I was too amused. Here was a kite that I gave up trying to fly because it was to complex, but my kids didn’t give up. They tried and tried until they got the outcome they wanted. Which is my keep for today is to remember being child-like as you soar or fly your kites.
Whereas I gave up, because it was too complex and intricate, my kids didn’t. They stood up to the challenge and learnt something in return; that they are at very center, the very heart of all the possibilities that resides in them, all the boldness too. They instinctively gravitate towards problems, those great and small, those within that capacity to solve and those they barely know where to begin. They also collaborate or reach out to others for help. I watched as my sons stood patiently behind the dragon as my daughter made sense of the rope for flying. Her brothers fixed the green tail, the lavish red ribbons and were right behind her cheering her on as she took flight with the kite. Something about this moment made me realize that we are all part of something bigger when we open up to problems together. Also, we all need some of the energy and optimism of children. They boldly go where adults may fail to go and they never give up especially when things they love are involved.
This combination of possibilities and being bold, are fundamental life lessons that remain long after you pass through childhood. It’s also one of the greatest blessings I have as a black mother in light. Granted, there are days when giving up is necessary, a self-care remedy even, for a world so corrosive to our being. On those days, I am like myself when I tried to make sense of the kite. I’ll do my part, make sense of what I can, and let go of what I can’t. But on the days full of possibilities, days full of audacity, I am like my children and their dragon kite. I never give up. We give up at our cost. For I remember when flying kite was a child was magic. It’s probably the reason I buy kites every summer for them. A child’s ability to make sense of the kite, to watch as it rises up on wings, and soars through the wind, has always been powerful to me. I always felt alive, watching something we make fly. This question of being bold and knowing your possibilities is very important to me, and when you watch children, my children put it into practice, I am thankful. They helped me return to my childhood watching them fly their kite over and over again. I intend to remain like them as I fly my kite. The possibilities are endless indeed.
I have been excavating other ways of being lately. Other ways of being together too. Other ways to imagine interior lives seldom shared. This unending murmur is part of the noise I narrate. Of motherhood, for example, for mother’s that are black, mothers in academia, mothers with little children, mothers finding themselves still, while being nurturing, as we navigate this space we find nourishing, note-worthy too.
Sometimes, my desire to write about my experience is clear. Inspirations come from all angles too. Like my children, or flowers, like Dahlias and their thick opulent petals, that unfurl, ever so softly with every swirl.
Sometimes, I am moved by the scent of life, the power of meaningful experiences etched in my memories. Like my baby’s first crawl, or his first steps. His first words too, in repetition, over and over again, like da da, or ma ma, unlocks feelings that I have to air in some way, of the multitude of ways learning with life occurs, especially when you stop and kiss the ground, like babies do when crawling or walking.
Sometimes the words come to me, like a whisper. I am obedient to the power of language. Words are supposed to be useful, supposed to move you. So I listen, and dig deeper, down to the hole where the message resides, where the sightings of water, like in a deep well, becomes clear. I listen to tell you about this interior life, full of knowledge that flows through me with words I put together. Though I have no time to tell you everything, I am an overflowing oasis, open and obedient to opportunities, that are opulent, like Savannahs after rain, opportunities that offer to help me move onward in ways that are truly outstanding. So we move and organize possibilities way beyond our abilities. The sound and action of all the possibilities I have, my silence transformed to action, my survival taught as strategies, my stories in the making, those told and still formulating, all of them is so you hear me differently, see me differently too, beyond the spaces you choose or the mirrors you use to shape what you think I am becoming. I need not respond to anything. For my fears are not new, they are not old, even though they are not told.
This constant state of remaking, restorying too, is so you see and feel the story I am becoming. The stretching of my mind, the injection of creativity, of flowers and birds, of trees, and their hidden stories, all help to tell the stories that rally, stories that sustain, stories that oppose all you think about black mothers in light. To be one, to become one, to clear the path towards light, in the middle of darkness is an audacious task. Even if what I write, what I say only touches your soul one time, I have won. For to transform this silence, to use words to bring it out, and pour it in a space, not constrained by others is transformative. I am transformed in process. You are too.
Hence the purpose of this keep. To help you, me, express what I already know but may fail to say. That to be silenced is not without voice. To lack funds to is not without will. There is a way. Another path exists, however muted the path you wanted may seem today. The potential for light, the potential to rise from darkness to light resides in you. It is in you and always has. So keep rising. Your words, your light is the first opening of possibilities. You are important. You are valuable. Your light is inevitable. Keep creating art and words with your life.
A league on their own, each petal is a colorful ray, of doubled flowers, in yellow or purple-ray florets, whites, ivories, and scarlet rays too. All in multiple whorls of ray flowers, all forming circles, forming clusters, forming bunches so compact, that it can only be described as motherhood. Dahlias are like mothers to me, so intense is the experience to me.
Their golden round and its countless petals, are like countless stars, that circle my being, with a stillness, so formless, so nameless, and so restless. The sighting of Dahlias are like mothers on days things are barely fathomless, days things are formless, even days we feel so flawless.
Dahlias indeed are stars. The blind see nothing. Both those who see, open their hearts. Their minds too open. To a stillness that is forever dazzling, forever haunting, each glimpse, forever brilliant, forever etched in memories as with days forever mesmerizing or days forever feeling helpless, or forever full of deep thoughts, that maybe forever inspiring while at the same time, make your feel forever dreamless, until moments become once more forever captivating, forever full of passion, in the midst of wild terrains that are forever demanding, even as you stay forever looking, yet feel like everything is forever in vain. Dahlias and their intricate whorls are forever full of surprises with every whorl which summarizes all that motherhood forever epitomizes.
The mere sightings of Dahlias galvanizes you to become one with all you desire, all you despise, all you disguise, even all you downsize as your journey from your base to your inner interior, the space where you hide your deepest desires, first for you, the place where all your dreams resides, all for you.
I have been there before. Of feeling lost, yet finding myself, of knowing how to proceed, yet loosing my way, but everything slowly making sense once my eyes greeted Dahlias.
Time stood still for Dahlias. They invite you in, invade your being, demand that you literally stop to recognize them, greet them, with all you possess, all within your power to soar as you devise ways to harmonize being one with your inner strength, one with this intricate flower. This is what Dahlias are known for. An inner strength so haunting, that you may fail to recognize the moment you give your self away to all the flower symbolizes. You may have been here before. Every time your eyes meet Dahlias. The sighting burrows deep in your soul. Like the soft kiss of a breeze. Dahlia’s kiss are forever captivating, forever etched in memories, that are forever lasting.
Yellow Dahlias gently kissed me while taking my baby to his daycare this week. Red ones too, ushered a tenderness so divine, gently caressing my restless heart, like fine wine. Slowly, I pressed forward, running out of excuses to delay this moment. He was supposed to start last week. It was his first time, and my heart and speech where rambling in chaos. Even though this was the day we have been waiting for.
I have been here before, with three other children. But something about baby number 4 made me nervous, made our day restless. Nothing was packed properly. Not his snack, not his water bottle, not his bag. Nothing was labeled properly either, not his diapers, not his wipes, not his bag. I should be happy. I should be pleased. No troubled mind, no demanding time. No breastfeeding, not restless feeding. Finally, all my children will be out of the house. Finally, all time, would be mine to claim. Sleep too. Yet, I was restless, nervous too. I fought through pain, until Dahlias met my eyes. With their sweet embrace, they encircled my being, forcing me to rise, to open to the sweet tenderness of this moment. Like the warmth of deep blue skies, I opened to their sweet embrace.
These are some of the secrets that I tend to keep hidden until now. Tend to ignore, dismiss too, until now. Stopping to recognize the power of opening up, was the gift I got from Dahlias. That and letting go. Of all the pains and joys of motherhood. The hopes and dreams we have that slowly dissipate, when we put others first. Slowly die, when we fail to put ourselves first. Even when we give our children the will to fly. We forget to fly too, afraid we will fall. I should be happy. I told myself 100 times, it will be okay. I knew this. We have been here before. Letting go, was painful. Unleashing a power, that made me rethink this moment, this freedom, this time that I knew would come one day. All children have to grow up. My baby, my last born, the one I bore during the pandemic was slowly walking to embrace all that life has to offer. I should be happy. Yet I felt lost.
I was lost, until Dahlia found me.
I was lost in its petals. This ethereal beauty, filled my restless soul with ease. Our greeting was gentle, a soulful ease. Like lovers we caressed each other, gently took hold of each other. With stillness so profound, so earth shaking. Time stood still, and Dahlias held me captive. We held on to each other. Afraid to blink, our eyes remain captivated by each other. Letting him go became easy. Watching him go with such reverence, became easy. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and caught him as he looked back. I saw something. Movements he initiated. Eyes locked with mine. As if to say are you coming. I am, always and forever, behind you, looking at you, loving you, captivated by you, inspired too by you, my baby, even as your journey through this world, through life. Keep Dahlia’s in mind for your journey through motherhood.
I am intrigued by its meaning. Webster’s defines it as providing insight and clarity. Becoming highly informative too.
Macmillan was my preferred definition. The idea of providing new and useful information so that something becomes clearer and easier to understand makes the word an important tool to which to speak to you to today.
I am a black woman coming to terms with my illumination. I am forever in search for ways to make things I love to do seem easy to understand, seem clear, and full of insight and not just for me, but for you, whoever you are reading this now in search of new insight to things that truly incite.
Like light. What is it about this word that keeps me returning back to it? It’s almost like I want to scream it out to the world with all my might. I just might too with precision and clarity.
For we have been in darkness for too long. We have done things as people truly blind to the world. We have not made efforts or strides to illuminate spaces and places in desperate need for light.
I am first to admit that part of my world has been in darkness for too long, under the shadows of the word and worlds of others for too long and still so eager to push through the darkness towards things that are illuminating for as long as I can.
Like the idea of being a black mom in light. A black woman in light.
I know whose I am is the first mantra. I know it from my hair follicles to the soles of my feet. Nothing I do is by accident. It is all by design, all written from the first moment I was conceived. I know whose I am is all I say with clarity on days when darkness seeks to envelope my world. On those days, knowing that I was made by design helps push light through.
The second mantra, make your case known. Do your best to push for light. You will fail in the process. Do so gracefully. Become prepared to make failure even a habit. I have no problem failing on my way to making light known. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden no matter how hard darkness seems to engulf the city. And there will be darkness. You will even go through the deepest depths of darkness. But when you remember who designed you, who first called you, then even the darkness is not dark enough for him.
Your ways are not my one is the third mantra. You want me to do it this way. Great, but what if I tried this way too. Ooh I will fail. I chuckle. Failure is always an option when you are a black mom, a black woman in light. It’s our second mantra for crying out loud. So yes, I will do it my way and I am prepared to fail daily until my way makes sense. It has to for I know whose I am.
Finally what’s your legacy? What is the institution that you are building and how will you make it last? This fourth mantra keeps me up at night. Not because I have the answers but because I care deeply about the stories the legacy will tell long after I am gone. I care deeply about the thoughts, the actions, even the words that I hope will speak louder for me, more eloquently than anything would. I care deeply about the spaces we build, the places that nourish our being, for what we own, what we build, our very own Institutions and structures cannot be broken when we build it with light. What’s your legacy becomes a clarion call for what being in light truly entails.
It’s for them afterall. Our legacy. Those we have asked to gather around our table, those we called to invade our space, those we choose to make room for in our place, our mind, our heart, our soul.
We cannot all going through this life together. I get it. The chapter we may find ourselves in today, will surely end tomorrow. When it does, who remains, who leaves?
I care deeply about those that choose to remain even when all that surrounds us makes no sense. I care deeply about those that choose to remain even when I hurt them deeply. I care deeply about those that choose to remain because they trust my words, the language I use, even when all I say may be empty. I care deeply about those that choose to remain to help me uncover all the noise, on this road to becoming clear, precise, illuminating, light.
I care deeply about those that see my light. I don’t take it all for granted. This process of becoming light. I care deeply about all of you on this journey. I know some of you read this.
I thank you for listening. I thank you for seeing the vision. I thank you for believing. I thank you for helping me, helping us push through this light that the world desperately needs these days.
Nothing we are doing is by accident. It is all by design. I care deeply that you see it too. Thank you for pushing light through with me. Thank you illuminating my world.
If I am not saying much now with precision and clarity it’s because we just gave birth. We have been in labor since September when this writing began. A 10 month pregnancy that has finally given birth to a dream. To think that I had to do so much writing to make way for this dream is breathtaking to me. To see the people we have assembled is even extraordinary.
These next few months are like those of a newborn. Nothing will make sense. We are still in darkness as it’s takes a while for newborn babies to open their eyes and see faces and shapes and sounds that will forever remain. We are truly newborns at this moment. But in due time, we will crawl, walk, and even run. Until then, keep illuminating the world. It truly needs our light to push through.
I said what the f…k today. I rarely curse and not in writing. I get it. Space matters. So does money. Being rich is a privilege. And yes you have the right to spend your hard earned money however you like.
So I woke up cheering for you, cheering for your blue origins, cheering for your space exploration, cheering for this defining moment. My son loves space. I showed him New Shepard as it made it way up to space and back down to earth. I clapped for humanity. I clapped for you. This is no small feat.
Our ways are truly inspiring. The fact that we can reach for space is astounding. So too is the audacity. I mean who can say they have ever been out of space. They have ever even been outside earth. So I applauded the feat. The next generation is off to a great start. A pandemic, check. Space tourism, check. Billionaires and their friend paving the way, check.
But then it dawned on me. It’s only for people that do not look like me. As in, for now space is out of limits for black and brown folks, and especially black women like me. We have also been here before. We have been out of spaces and places that would rather we put our faces to the ground rather than set it up boldly to uncover all that makes us graceful.
And we are graceful. It’s in our stride. Black women in stride are as graceful as wombs that gave birth to you. We are life givers, culture bearers, truth tellers, storytellers, eloquent ragers, with divine crowns that are stunning for every wearer. We are also blessed beyond these words we use to speak to you. That’s the power of a black woman’s stride. The power of one who knows the significance of her stride.
We are born to thrive even when places reject our audacity to step ahead of any race. Our audacity to be graceful. But we are audacious. It’s in our stride. Have you ever since the way we embrace storms that showcase our ability to harness that which was meant to displace us, even embarrass us?
We literally embrace storms with grace.
We are also always ready to tie up our shoe lace and run whatever race we find ourselves in at the sound of any chase. His grace is always sufficient for any race.
And our race, the way our feet embraces the earth, with every pace in place is so full of grace. We run our race in a stride that would make others retrace their own pace. To see a black woman run, so swiftly like a gazelle is too bless God for being our hiding place. He knew what he was doing when he created us to literally bare his face.
Hence why I was so confused watching a man give $100 million to another for simply being courageous and civil. To whom I ask? For what? You have $100 million to spare and you give it to men?
If invisibility was a cloak, it was used on black women today. The very same day humanity took a space tourism flight. The very same day humanity walked on moon years ago. This was also the day humanity choose to keep the faces of black women invisible. Our graceful faces.
I am reclaiming this narrative for own good and for all the other brown and black little girls that need to tie up their shoe laces and run their own race in stride. We can use stories to rightfully ask for our place in space. Like why are there no black women on this space race or giving race? Why do we still lack representation in moments where time seems to stop for outer spaces and other races? Does my sass really, really offend you? Or is it truly the curve of my back? Why do you choose to render us invisible?
Our invisibility in spaces we did not create is appalling and I don’t blame anyone. Not even us. We are in the trenches afterall, doing all the work we need to do for our people with grace. The fact that we are never seen, never praised, never taken to outer space and never embraced in minds and souls makes me feel like like illuminating this our graceful invisibility for good, with precision and clarity.
I know whose I am and I will tell my story, our story with grace. I shutter at this thought not because I want your money or even to sit on your spaces. I know that I am not invited to places that would rather I hide my face rather that arch my back with grace. I am graceful after all and it’s your space. So I don’t want your embrace. I would rather build my own space. My own brown girl dreaming is to turn places and spaces into things that nourish our being, our shared humanity.
I shudder because you continue to deny yourselves the ability to live in our stride, live in our grace, live in spaces and places that desperately need our sense of clarity, our precise understanding of what needs to happen now for the whole humanity. I shudder because your world isn’t illuminated by our grace.
Which is why I ask what if black women ruled the world? Just what if we were at your tables, your homes, your schools, your offices, your agencies, your institutions, your structures, however oppressive and suffocating you have made them all to be for me.
What if black women were better represented and at the table to speak from our heart and soul of places in need of light, our light, our heart, our soul, whether outer space or in places where our grace remains hidden.
We are graceful after all like gazelle. What if I told the story of our graceful stride? Ohh what a sassy stride we will take if only we ruled the world, if only we illuminated your outer spaces with grace.