Who measures you, baby? And by what scale?
When you are never the narrator, there is a cost. What is freedom if someone else defines you for yourself and the world to believe?
Blackness must not be defined by our brutalization. When we are depicted by our extremes, the truth of us is lost.
Gatekeepers have erased the beauty of our Blackness and our brilliance, too. They’ve drawn us in despair or boxed us into a suffocating sport of excellence. To deny their lies and call on our joy, our loves, our lives, is our beautiful resistance.
Dearhearts, our story is not theirs to tell. There is no voicelessness. They say our Blackness is one thing. But baby our melanin has multitudes across the diaspora and we speak happy, we speak beauty, we speak free in every tongue.
How do we story, how do we witness, how do we truth tell? This is a particular kind of spell.
The minute you discover your truth and write your own story, the elders call to the water within you and ignite a freedom wave. They sing to your soul, putting power into the words you write and say.
Words are not simply the nouns, adjectives, and verbs we speak. Language lays stories, builds bridges and paints pictures for those we may never meet. They are our song, our dance, our beautiful beat.
How have they taught and detailed the makings of you, crown? Did they gather your truth from your people or erase you, rewrite you as separate and unequal?
Your narrative is yours to own. This is our liberation. The first steps of change happen in witnessing yourself and watering the radical imagination. Joy, light, love, and dreams? What a protest to a system that sought to own us and our story.
When I see Black folk, I see a movement. Black people, you are the revolution. Our joy, our dreams, our everyday existence? This is our beautiful resistance.