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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2015: The Year of Black Erasure

2015: The Year of Black Erasure

From Maryland to Missouri, Black rage came to a boil in 2015. Reported riots in Baltimore and Ferguson summed up the country’s frustration with the government-sanctioned violence against Black Americans over the course of the year. The cry for justice was loud and boisterous, yet it would do little to stop the assault on Black bodies, Black history, and Black pride.

As if they’d been written in pencil, African Americans watched their lives and legacies scraped at and scratched out this year – our ability to live, to learn, and to love ourselves constantly under siege. 

There’s no doubt about it: Black erasure was REAL in 2015.

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You ain’t gotta lie to kick it: Rachel Dolezal, white mediocrity and the idealization of blackness

You ain’t gotta lie to kick it: Rachel Dolezal, white mediocrity and the idealization of blackness

Screen Shot 2015-06-18 at 2.53.04 PMThere was no shortage of comedic gems to stem from the Rachel Dolezal controversy. Quickly following the news that the white activist had disguised herself as African-American for years, black Twitter tackled the moment with a series of cheeky one-liners, hashtags and memes, sparking a hilarious yet honest dialogue about race.  But perhaps the most absurdly amusing part of Dolezal’s story is America’s refusal to recognize the sociopathy inherent in her assumption of a new racial identity. Rather, critics and supporters alike are immersed in a debate around the authenticity of Dolezal’s blackness; and with the public unable to come to a consensus, the term “transracial” has emerged to legitimize her web of lies and the media circus surrounding it. Drawing parallels to transgenderism and bolstered by the fluidity of race as a social construct, transracial advocates argue that if Rachel’s racial identity does not match the norms associated with her assigned race, she should thus be allowed to transition into blackness. In short, despite being born to white parents, Rachel has the right to be black.

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