Coming of Age as a Black Girl

Coming of Age as a Black Girl

I waited so long for her. Well before my sister told me she was pregnant, I prayed for a new companion. My adult relationships were becoming far too fickle; I needed to experience that infinite love only a child could give. And while I don’t know what kind of mother I’d make, I’ve always wanted to be a crazy aunt.

I imagined our future play dates at random city landmarks that I’m far too old to patron alone at my age. I imagined the way she’d smile after a greedy scoop of Dippin’ Dots at Coney Island. I imagined the way her eyes would question the “native” artifacts on display at the American Museum of Natural History. When I finally found out she was coming, my first assumption was that we’d have the same taste in music, so I created a playlist of love songs that I sang to my unborn niece very often and very much off-key.

She arrived in the early morning of Christmas Eve, weighing six pounds and three ounces. We called her Amaya. When I finally built up the courage to hold her for the first time, she studied my face with one eye open and the other in a tight squint. My eyes met her tiny little pupils for a brief instant, and in that moment it felt as if I’d reunited with an old friend. She looked as if she recognized me too.

As the nurse whisked Amaya away to the nursery, my sister awkwardly lamented about childbirth disrupting her annual her Christmas shopping.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll buy your gift next week.”

 Born nearly 9 years apart, we have developed more of a mother-daughter relationship over the years. With our own mother often working long hours overnight to feed two mouths my father had left hungry and vacant years before, my big sister stepped in to fulfill many of her maternal duties. I can recall her making me breakfast and taming my stubborn kinks in the morning. I can recall her teaching me to read and write well before I was old enough to tie my shoes. She taught me that too and she would read me poems and stories in exaggerated accents before tucking me into bed at night. 

Still, it was hard to believe that even after pushing something the size of a football out her vagina, my big sister was worried about me. We were all grown up now. We had both survived the backbreaking journey of coming of age as a black girl in America. We had found a way from no way and now it was time to light the way for my niece.

“Don’t worry about getting me a gift,” I replied. “We got Amaya.” 

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What James Baldwin Taught Me About Racist Trolls

What James Baldwin Taught Me About Racist Trolls

I love James Baldwin.

As a fellow writer and Harlem native, he is my literary muse. When I first discovered his work, I felt as if he snatched the words off the tip of my tongue and splattered them on the page. He revealed me to myself, reaffirming my humanity in a country where blacks were offered a subpar education, fed subpar food, and left to rot in subpar housing.

Baldwin was and, perhaps, still remains America’s black revolutionary voice.

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Are we witnessing the genocide of Black America?

Are we witnessing the genocide of Black America?

“Historically, the most terrible things – war, genocide, and slavery – have resulted not from disobedience, but from obedience.” — Howard Zinn

Today, I watched another Black man murdered in cold blood by the morally bankrupt and, quite frankly, moronic street gang we call American law enforcement. Like most Americans, I watched it on national television with some bemused cable news anchor giving a play-by-play of the events as if he were analyzing some ritual sports game. It has certainly come to feel that way. Ritual. The government-sanctioned murder of black people in this country is nothing new – I know that very well – but over the last few years, I have come to realize that it is not something one simply reads about in history books. It is a living breathing thing, an unfortunate reality of being Black in America and having the audacity to be free. The anchor’s tone was dull and distant, signifying precisely how emotionally detached American values are from the war on Black lives. I thought back to the empathy in this same anchor’s voice just a few weeks ago while reporting the death of an endangered gorilla and I marveled at his seeming inability to have the same compassion for another human being. I watched him wrap up his account of the Black man’s murder and interview a panel of correspondents to debate the ethics of criminal homicide. After a few minutes of bickering, the anchor thanked his guests for their comments and moved on to more “ pressing” matters: the presidential election and the circus that is Donald Trump. And so it was. Alton B. Sterling had joined the countless Black Americans whose lives would be remembered in hashtags and T-shirts, but never on America’s mainstage.

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