Quote of the Week

My Beautifully Diverse Community,

​

It is so great to be back with you, my amazing, supportive, and badass community.  This year will be the best yet, and I cannot wait to see and hear what you have all been up to.  But, for now, we having something pressing to discuss. This quote is a hard one for me because I am so tempted to make excuses for why this wisdom should not apply today. This week, as the world pauses to celebrate the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—a man who preached non-violence in the face of violent oppression—there are three quotes by Dr. Berenice King, Dr. Maya Angelou, and Zendaya that deftly construct a narrative that has given me many a sleepless night recently.

​

Our Parents' Rearview; Our Generational Windshield

I was raised in Atlanta, GA, and to this day, I still consider it home. No matter how far I travel or how long I stay away, it always calls to me. Though Chicago was where I got pregnant, had my children, and waged some of my most meaningful battles, it was Atlanta that constructed the framework.

​

My dad used to carry me around the city on his shoulder, giving me a break only when my sister demanded a turn. But I would always find myself perched at what was my Mount Everest, looking down at the world from a bird’s eye view. I often wonder if my father did this out of love, affection, and fun, or if it was a metaphorical establishment of never feeling as though I had to look up to a world that, in many corners, still relished the thought of those covered in the sweet chocolate melanin I share with my own children, crushed under their boot heel.

 

My father, for his part, was raised in Mississippi. My mother was raised in South Carolina, less than 90 minutes from my kitchen table. Yet, their experiences were vastly different. He bore many of the internal scars and truths that I never thought a generation such as mine would ever face. Men, women, and children dragged from their homes with no explanation given; the misguided belief that if you just "toe the line" all will be well; sitting next to people who feared that your skin color was no better than a stench they voraciously avoided.

​

I remember the tales from my parents of blood running in the streets, children ripped from the arms of parents they knew they might never lay eyes upon again, and water hoses that could rip flesh off limbs like poultry skin in a slow cooker—no seasoning required. I even remember being irritated that my parents would make me watch Eyes on the Prize so that the freedoms I took for granted were put into the proper context. They wanted me to appreciate all that I had gained by understanding what had been lost.

​

But it was the "real world" that was my greatest educator. Even as a child, I recall being called trash and "girlie," and being made to believe that the intellect I hold so dear was more a product of the White teachers who took notice of it than the parents who taught me math, history, and the lessons of life. I learned that life experiences could land you behind bars for not showing the "proper respect," or quite honestly, much worse. I remember the caution of going to neighborhoods that were not my own, and the abject fear that could choke your courage into submission on the very rare instances when I didn’t listen.

​

I must admit that those experiences fed both my anger and my fear, as I didn’t know enough about disappointment yet to name the feeling. But what I did know was hate. And I’m not talking about the kind you think you feel when somebody says some dumb shit. No, I’m talking about the type that makes your blood run cold at the sight of an emotion that has given many the bravado to hang those who looked like me from trees like Christmas ornaments we’ve yet to take down.

​

However, my parents gave me something far greater than that. They gave me the gift of grace and contextual understanding.

​

My mother was a fierce mama bear, but it is she who gave me the depth of my heart. It was she who literally fed me mother’s milk in the form of quiet defiance, versatility of thought, audacious Black feminine excellence, and a compassion that still runs deep within me. My father was the steel to her silken words. He instilled in me that below Lake Lanier, Central Park, and many of the high-rise buildings we consider marvels of architecture, there are wells of dried blood that seeped through the cracks of our nation's history—and not just that of Black people like us.

​

He would routinely drive by Ebenezer Church without saying a word, loudly showcasing it in silence as a reminder of all that had been fought for and obtained before I was a manifestation or even a thought. It reminded me that we had come so far, even though we had miles to go. As he would silently drive towards home, I had those visions in my rearview mirror.  Now, it seems as though similar scenes are playing out just beyond my windshield, and there is stark terror at just the thought of stepping outside of the car.

​

 

“With everything going on, the one thing that I think Dr. King reminds people of is hope and the ability to challenge injustice and inhumanity.” — Dr. Bernice King

​

I must admit, I’m weary. I often feel at a loss while also feeling so lost in a national community where hate has once again become the meal of the day from which so many of us gain sustenance. Whether it’s music beefs, reality television, or a man becoming a millionaire for shooting an unarmed woman in the head and chest, there seems to be a welcomed diet of chaos that fuels fear, hatred, and violence. It has caused whiplash and paralysis at the same time. This is the environment I am raising my children amid—one I thought I would never see in living color.

​

 

“Courage is the most important of all virtues because, without it, you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.” — Dr. Maya Angelou

 

I have asked myself so often, "What do I do? What can I do to make a better world for my babies, where deadbolts on wooden doors are still shattered to pieces among battering rams made of lead and weaponized vitriol?"

​

What honest answer do I give my child when she asks if she or her best friend can be stolen from the warmth of home and shuttled to the frigidity of the unknown? What do I say when my son asks me to go to any other country in the world populated with people of color, while their citizens here are treated as less than human?

​

Am I even allowed to admit that the kernel of despair and disbelief I once held has been nurtured into the Jiffy Pop of fury and yes… fear? I want to rage. I want to injure as I verbally condemn. I want to make the author of this fresh wave of raucous audacity feel the heaviness of helplessness that has settled into the bones of those watching the same screens, behind the same windshield, longing for my father’s rearview mirror.

​

But I remember what my father and my mother both taught me: when you look at yourself, you rarely feel the tug of consciousness because you’ve already justified your position before stepping up to the plate. But when you look into the eyes of children—be they part of your lineage or not—the hard truth stares beyond your orbs into one's very soul.

​

Who, I ask, will you be then? For me, the answer is simple: I want to be better. That is how I forge my path forward. Knowing there is no judgment for your personal choice, I have to ask: how will you forge yours?

​

"Just because someone has inflicted hurt upon us, it does not give us the right to do the same." — Zendaya

​

​

​

Strive. Rise. Thrive.