the other talk
I relish in the raising up of my pre-teen Black girl
Watching her body change, I make sure to celebrate her
To cultivate in her the expansiveness of her being — of what is possible,
A connection to her power and majesty
An insatiable curiosity about the changes she’s experiencing
I am most careful to stomp out the flames of fear in her about the way she is received
Still, the other day she ran home crying with her bestie, shaking with fear
That Saturday afternoon I had done what mamas do when restless children decide to play kickball in her living room
I sent them outside with sidewalk chalk on a barely spring day in Brooklyn
Two beautiful Black girls with bodies burgeoning at break-neck speed
Here is where I feel the need to defend myself even as my politics teach me better
Preemptively answering the accusatory questions rooted in the fear of a chaotic world where little Black girls armed with sidewalk chalk are unsafe
“Where was her mama?”
But I did my best to arm her. I really did.
We agreed on how far and where she could go
I gave her a phone
I kissed her forehead
I prayed.
The non-Black world has found empathy that is typically elusive to Black folks in the painful reality of the “talk” that Black parents give their boys
it captures the parental helplessness in the face of state power
it captures the flimsiness of the armor we send our children into the world with
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it captures the consistent flow of adrenaline in our bodies that is actively poisoning us
it captures the generational harm and the psychological toll of living in racism
it’s what Black parents have always done: relieving their children of their innocence at home before the world can take it from them violently
Still, the inevitable happened.
They were sexually harassed for the first, and likely not the last time
I have no uniform to tell my child to watch for
no sirens to tell her trouble is coming
those that would harm her wear the same uniform of those who love her deeply and actively
she will only know the danger when it’s so close she may not escape it
As a Black mama of a Black girl, I don’t get the luxury of feigning surprise
I am not caught off guard
Rather I am trained for this moment
I’ve already begun asking her to change out of her favorite shorts before they hug her body too tightly,
Sneaking them out of her dresser drawer while she’s at school
I’ve started buying her t-shirts a size too big around the same time I started buying bralettes
I do this even as i know better
Some days these subtle shifts feel more like alibis than protection
As she escaped her harasser
My baby threw that middle finger up as she ran
And saved her tears for when she walked in the door
I began this piece naming the seeds I cultivate in her
I told her I was proud.
