Letter to My Nephew and Other Black Males in America

Author’s Note: I originally penned this piece to my great nephew as a reflection on what it was like to love him — a Black boy in a country that does not love him back. A country that sees him as a threat. Recent events take me back to this piece to try and make sense out of what doesn’t make sense. My first born great nephew is almost 30, and now I also have four more great nephews. I write this so that others might understand the challenges of loving Black boys and men is never easy. I write this for the Black men and boys in my life. I love you because not loving you is not an option.

Dear Nephew,

Then: Your saucer-shaped, deep brown eyes look innocently from underneath long lashes as though you are not capable of any wrongdoing. A big smile creases your face as your cinnamon brown hands reach up and grab me around the neck as you plant a wet, slimy kiss on my cheek. But before your arms come down, those innocent eyes become devilish and you tickle my neck.

I looked at you then and I was afraid and I’m afraid now because I know the world does not love you like I do. So, I am fractured in how I deal with you. On the one hand, I want you to follow the words of the U. S. Army and be all that you can be. I want you to grab life by the proverbial horns and ride it as I cheer you on from the sidelines. And I do! But I must also teach you the ways of the world that you were born into. In his 1963 essay, My Dungeon Shook: Letter to My Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the EmancipationProclamation” James Baldwin said, “You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many ways as possible, that you were a worthless human being.” And here we are more than 60 years later, and the essay is just as relevant today as it was then.

Now: You’re 16, almost 17 now. As I look into your face, I worry about what the future holds for you. I wonder if your bigger-than-life personality will take you places or hold you back. You know that you are loved, but I don’t know how to tell you that many in the world will not love you back. Should I tell you like Baldwin told his nephew that the best that you can hope for is acceptance? Is that enough?

We have sheltered and protected you, and I wonder if we have done a disservice to you as a Black male in America? You know that you are special, but what happens when you are outside the circle of our influence? When I try to explain to you about being stopped by the police for no other reason than Breathing While Black you tell me that you will never be spread eagle across a police car. It’s hard for me to get you to understand that this is probably an unfortunate right-of-passage for you. And there is a part of me that applauds the fact that this is not how you see yourself, but it’s not enough. So, I take you to see documentaries like The Central Park Five so that you know what’s real in the world you live in.

You are forever asking me to drop you off somewhere so that you can ride public transportation, and I keep telling you, no. You resent that we pick you up and drop you off. You accuse us of treating you like a baby because you think you are invincible to the dangers lurking in the world. It’s hard for me to explain to you that because of the world that you live in, the enemy will many times be someone who looks like you. Yes, I can talk to you about Emmett Till, and Trayvon Martin, but I must also talk to you about Darion Alberts.

You are one more in a long-line of Black males that I love, and what I’ve learned is that to love you-a Black male in America- is to love you with rubber-band like tension taut across my heart. I have to love you with trepidation. I have to love you in a schizophrenic kind of way — pull you close, push you away. I have to love you and let you go so that you’ll grow. It is your growth that is frighteningly beautiful because it is both a necessity and a threat to your survival. But to love you and all other Black males in America is to embrace the fear and beauty that surrounds you.

Love you to Life!

TTSteph

Black Women Finding Peace With Our Hair

In a recent interview with Tracee Ellis Ross to promote her new book, “The Look,” former First Lady Michelle Obama’s comments on Black women’s hair ignited a debate. In a snippet from the interview, Michelle said, “Our hair comes out of our heads naturally in a curly pattern. So, when we straighten it to follow your beauty standards, we are trapped by the straightness.”

A 32-year-old woman who goes by the name Chanelcofive on Threads took issue with the former first lady’s comments. “Dear Michelle Obama, newsflash black women do not straighten their hair because of white peoples beauty standards. As a Curly natural myself most black women straighten their hair because they choose to and it’s easier to manage for them. Let’s drop this narrative that we do anything for the white beauty standard, black women are the true beauty standard. Why get on stage and say that nonsense.”

The post went viral, and sharp lines were drawn. People were either Team Michelle or Team Chanelcofive. But the conversation lacked the nuance to shed light on the tangled history of Black women’s hair in America. While progress has been made on the acceptance of Black hair, and we see more Black people rocking their natural hair (fros, locks, and other natural hairstyles), this country still has a long way to go.

In my three-decade-long experience as an educator, I watched Black students (boys and girls) struggle with their hair. The fresh-pressed Easter hair of my childhood was still present in the 90s and 2000s. My students and I talked about appearance-based biases, including hair. In a discussion about “good” and “bad” hair, I asked my students to define “bad” hair, and a student pointed to his head. Another time, two girls were arguing when one shouted to the other, “It’s not my fault, I don’t have Indian in my family!” And the girl she was arguing with smirked as if to say, I know. I witnessed a great deal of internal turmoil and criticism of Black hair during my tenure as a teacher.

After watching other interviews with Michelle, I noticed her intentionality in the discussion of Black women’s hair. She is using her platform to open up a much-needed conversation. Michelle and I are around the same age, so I understand the message she’s trying to convey. The journey to make peace in our heads with the way our hair grows out of our heads has not been easy. As a rule, our hair grows up and out. It’s different from any other race. European beauty standards have been normalized, and some of us still hold onto them. There are Black women and girls with natural hair who still feel the need to get their hair “done” (straightened) for special occasions.

There is a hierarchy when it comes to hair–the looser the curl, the more likely the hair is to be accepted. Chanelcofive, who described herself as a” loose natural,” didn’t address that all curl types aren’t equal. A woman with 3A or 3B hair faces less discrimination than a woman with 4C hair. Chanelcocofive’s loose curls allow her to enter spaces unapologetically, which is not the same as Black women with a tighter hair texture.

The fact that the conversation went viral demonstrates that there is still work to be done in accepting all types of Black hair. We only have to look at incidents that have made the news in recent years. On-air newscasters Brittany Noble Jones and Tashara Parker were told their natural hairstyles were “unprofessional.” Parker received backlash, and Jones was terminated. In 2012, Rhonda Lee, a meteorologist, responded to viewers’ negative comments about her hair on the station’s Facebook page. She was fired for allegedly violating the station’s social media policy. There have been countless stories in the media about Black students being suspended, expelled, and denied the opportunity to walk across the graduation stage with their peers because of their natural hairstyles.

It’s 2026, and we’re still trying to get legislation passed to eliminate discrimination against Black hair. The CROWN Act, which stands for Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair, was just created in 2019. It has only been passed in 27 states. The website contains researched information on how widespread and problematic hair discrimination is.

The Obama family was/is not exempt from scrutiny on how they wear their hair. Malia, the Obamas’ oldest daughter, was criticized for her cornrows and twists during their early years in the White House. Michelle was blamed for allowing Malia to wear her hair in natural styles because it was not “appropriate.” And let’s not forget when Barack and Michelle fist bumped, the caricature of them on the front page of the New Yorker depicting them as terrorists–Barack in Muslim attire with a turban, and Michelle with an Afro and an assault weapon strapped to her back, even though she’d always worn her hair straight. When Michelle left the White House and sported braids, her braids became a story.

I applaud Michelle’s efforts to bring attention to the plight of Black women and our hair. I’m glad the conversation between Michelle and Chanelcofive went viral. We need to talk about it. The more we talk, the better understanding we’ll have of the plight of Black hair in America, and the more we can continue to fight for our hair to be accepted in all of its glory. It’s past time to make peace in our heads with the hair on our heads.

Two Men

Born October 14

20 years apart

Publicly executed

As the world watched

On a continuous loop

Two Men

Partners

Parents

Beloved Family Member

Friend

Two Men

Revered

Reviled

Rebuked

Two Men

Celebrated

Condemned

Martyred

Mocked

Two Men

Saint & Sinner

Hero & Villain

Two Men

Born October 14

20 years apart

Whose deaths

Rocked the nation

And the world

Two Men

One Black

One White

Symbolic

Of the reality of

The Divided States

of America

Boots on the Ground, a popular song created by 803 Fresh from South Carolina, and a dance choreographed by Trey Little from Georgia, is everywhere! From children to former First Lady Michelle Obama, everybody is stomping their feet and popping their fans, grooving to the beat of this catchy tune.

I overheard a group of women discussing who gets credit for it going viral — the songwriter or the choreographer. They went back and forth. Then one of the women said, “You know they say the creator is gay.”

“And why do we need to know that?” another woman replied, rolling her eyes.

Not surprised by the turn in the conversation, I chuckled to myself. I’ve heard and engaged in similar conversations with straight people about the belief that gay people “do too much” — always waving the rainbow flag. The straights claim that we don’t care and we don’t need to know that gay people are gay. . . BUT when we know someone is gay, we lead with that. “You know they gay, right?” It’s such a weird conversation because we don’t need to know anyone’s sexuality unless we’re contemplating dating them. The women commented on the sexuality of the choreographer for Boots on the Ground, but nobody said anything about the sexuality of the songwriter because, based on appearance, the assumption is that he’s straight.

A couple of summers ago, I went on a cruise. And there were quite a few gay people on the ship. A woman remarked that they had “taken over the pool”. The appearance of gay people embracing their full selves seemed to bother some of the straight people. They behaved like the other passengers on the ship–speaking as they passed, making small talk, and minding their business, not bothering anybody. So, why do we continue to make the business of consenting adults our business? It can’t be an issue of morality because we’re accepting of the other “sins” related to sex–fornication and adultery.

We’re halfway through 2025. Why are we still struggling with the acceptance of differences? People old and young, Black and white, straight and gay, are united in this foot-stomping, fan-popping moment when so much divisiveness and ugliness exist in the world. Let’s enjoy what unites while it lasts.

Where dem gays at? Everywhere. And we need to get used to that.

I don’t want everybody to vote. Elections are not won by a majority of people. They never have been from the beginning of our country, and they are not now. As a matter of fact, our leverage in the elections quite candidly goes up as the voting populace goes down.” Paul Weyich

When I was 18 or 19, my friend got pregnant. Our families knew each other. So, her older sister, a Christian, asked me to encourage my friend to get an abortion. My friend’s sister thought she wasn’t ready to be a mother. She knew firsthand what it was like to be a young mother. I told my friend’s sister that I would support my friend in whatever decision she made–terminate the pregnancy or carry it to term.

A few other times I’ve been asked to weigh in on a woman’s decision regarding an unplanned pregnancy. And each time, I allowed them to share their thoughts and feelings, and I assured them that I would support them no matter their decision. I was there for support; not to judge and condemn.

I understood way back then that what another woman did with her body was not my business. That may be a difficult concept for some people to grasp, but it’s true. We have allowed a bunch of men who will never know what it’s like to be pregnant to make decisions about a girl or woman’s body.

I am a woman who has never been pregnant. And no, I’m not a virgin. I have mixed feelings about abortion. And if I had gotten pregnant in my childbearing years unless it was life-threatening or I had been raped, I probably would have carried the pregnancy to term. But I would never impose my thoughts and feelings on anyone else. I don’t know the whirlwind of emotions surging through a woman or girl when she finds out she’s pregnant. I’m not her.

For a long time, I have been baffled about how an issue that is so personal is such a hot-button political issue because we have allowed the Christian conservative right to deceive the American public into believing that to be anti-abortion is to be of higher moral standing; I disagree. A woman’s decision to have an abortion has no bearing on my morality.

After watching the documentaries, God and Country, and Bad Faith (on Amazon Prime), listening to the podcast The Ties that Bind, and reading articles online, I found the answers to the question that has been nagging me for a long time. How did abortion become a partisan issue? I was listening to the first episode of the podcast The Trojan Horse, hence the title of this piece, which explained how abortion was the face of many conservative concerns. “The horse says abortion, abortion, abortion but when you crack it open, it’s just really old toxic ideas about race and gender and women and power that came tumbling out,” Ellie Langford, the Director of Research at The National Association for the Repeal of Abortion Laws (NARAL) said in the episode.

To understand how abortion became a hot-button political issue is to know Paul Weyrich, an American religious conservative, political activist, and commentator who served as the architect of the modern Christian conservative movement. Weyrich is a key figure in understanding what is going on today.

Weyrich co-founded The Heritage Foundation, a conservative think tank from which Project 2025 evolved. Weyrich wanted to push the conservative agenda and affect policy change in America, and he needed a rallying call to appeal to voters. Conservatives settled on the issue of abortion as a means to an end. It was a strategic decision.

America was changing. Civil rights and women’s rights were gaining momentum. As usual, backlash followed progress. “I don’t think we could talk about the opposition to abortion without talking about the opposition to integration, gay marriage, and immigration rights because it’s all part of the same fabric of hatred,” lifelong reproductive justice advocate Loretta Ross said in the first episode. Abortion is a trojan horse for all issues that can diminish the power of wealthy, white heterosexual, cisgender conservative Christian men.

When the Supreme Court handed down the decision to desegregate schools, conservatives opened private schools where they could control enrollment. Bob Jones University (BJU), a private school in Greenville, South Carolina, is known for its conservative and evangelical cultural and religious positions. Established in 1927, the school did not initially admit Black students nor did it permit interracial marriage. In 1976, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) revoked the university’s tax-exempt status because of its racially discriminatory practices. BJU argued their case using religious liberty to the U.S. Supreme Court and lost.

The leaders of these schools and universities couldn’t use segregation as a rallying cry, so Weyrich joined forces with Jerry Falwell to create the Moral Majority which allowed the movement to become more active by registering and briefing conservative voters on political issues and “crystalizing the religious right into a powerful voting bloc,” according to an article on the Bad Faith documentary written by Sophie Hayssen on the Mother Jones website. “Weyrich is also credited with popularizing the pro-life stance among evangelicals, working to bring teachings about abortion into the churches and thereby galvanizing evangelicals around the issue,” Hayssen writes.

The goal of the conservative movement was a national conservative movement by any means necessary. They rallied behind Ronald Reagan, the original proclaimer of Make America Great Again and he became the first openly anti-abortion president. Even though the conservatives helped Reagan win two terms, he didn’t deliver on his promise to establish a conservative Supreme Court. To the movement’s dismay, Reagan appointed two moderate conservatives to the Supreme Court during his tenure.

Down but not out, the conservatives didn’t give up. They continued working and waiting for their chance to push their ultra-conservative agenda into the mainstream. Along comes Donald Trump who promises to deliver, and even though he’s a far cry from the “traditional family values” image promoted by the conservative right, they sell him as the best candidate for their base. And when Trump is elected president he delivers on his promise — a far-right Supreme Court.

And now we’re here. Trump is running for president again and one of his key issues is abortion. He takes credit for overturning Roe Vs Wade and said in both of his debates that some states allow abortions in the 8th, or 9th month and after the baby is born. The comments sound crazy to most of us, but they resonate with his base because abortion is such an emotionally charged issue. Abortion is so much more nuanced than simply pro-life or pro-choice.

According to the Pew Research Center, most Americans (63%) support legal abortion. But the proverbial squeaky wheel gets the oil, and the far-right conservative movement is a well-oiled machine that wields a great deal of power and influence. It’s time for the people to stand against the loud voices of a few. The abortion issue is a facade. It’s a successful political strategy being used by the conservative right to roll back the rights of many. Let’s not let that happen.

Abortion is an issue between a woman or girl and her partner, her doctor, and her God (if she believes). If we’re not one of these people, it’s not our business. Abortion is personal; it shouldn’t be political.

Leading up to Mother’s Day was hard this year. It started in April when I entered the store and the Mother’s Day displays and cards hit me. I took a deep breath and walked past the card section. But I’ve been on a roller coaster of emotions as I tried to dodge Happy Mother’s Day greetings all week. Every Happy Mother’s Day felt like a dagger piercing my heart. I participate in different activities throughout the week, and it was Mother’s Day speak all week–plays, dinners, lunches, brunches, shopping trips. I smiled and hid my gloom in their giddiness.

One year, I tried to ignore Mother’s Day, and I failed. It began when I had to buy something from Walgreens. My membership card is under my mother’s phone number because I always had to pick up her prescriptions. The cashier said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mattie.” as I was leaving. My name is not Mattie. And I am not a mother.

It was raining, so I decided to go to the movies. I went to see Poms, a story about a group of women who formed a cheerleading squad in a retirement center. The central character, Martha, has cancer and dies before the movie ends. I sat in the theater, shaking my head, and laughing at myself. I knew better than to believe that I could outsmart grief. It can be triggered anytime, anywhere, by anything. I knew that I had to push through to the other side.

There is an analogy that describes grief as a ball inside of a box. Inside the box is also a pain button. In the beginning stages of grief, the ball is constantly hitting the pain button, and the grief feels like it will never end. Over time, the ball becomes smaller but it never goes away. Then something happens and the ball hits the pain button. Earlier this week, I was more sensitive to the sights and sounds of Mother’s Day which caused the ball to hit the pain button inside the box. Nearing the end of the week I could hear Happy Mother’s Day and not feel sorrow dripping into my soul. I could even return the greeting.

I watched a video describing jealousy as part of grieving. Bingo! Scrolling past Mother’s Day posts on social media, taking a break from social media until a couple of days after the holiday, or not immediately responding to the constant barrage of Happy Mother’s Day text messages is normal. Not everyone shares in the joy of Mother’s Day. Give grace to the women who can’t. Pray for our peace throughout the day.

Allow us to mourn our losses. Some of us are childless. Some of us have lost children. Some of us wanted children, but never had them. Some of us have fractured relationships with our mothers. Give us time and space to process the myriad of emotions we are experiencing. We are trying to piece together a new normal from the broken pieces of our hearts.

One of my nieces is an event planner, and she decided to have a soulful tea honoring the women in the family. So, on Friday and Saturday, I spent most of the day setting up for the tea today. Family is soothing, so wrapped myself in the comfort of menial tasks and conversations. The youngest of seven, I am the only one of my siblings who doesn’t have children. I am an aunt and great-aunt, godmother, and former educator. Though I am not a mother, I have mothered many. Today I celebrated and was celebrated. We even shared our favorite stories about my mother. It was a wonderful time with family and friends. But I still miss my mama.

The final installment of The Best Man comedy-drama series created by Malcolm D. Lee aired on Peacock in December of 2022, and what a fitting ending to a franchise that began 23 years ago. I enjoyed The Best Man: The Final Chapters so much that I went back and re-watched The Best Man and The Best Man Holiday before watching the series–again. It was frustrating, funny, and oh-so messy–like real life. And I was there for all the drama experiencing a range of emotions as I watched Harper, Robyn, Jordan, Lance, Julian, Candace, Shelby, and Quentin navigate their way through the twists and turns of life.

Harper was selfish from Day One. Julian/Murch was right when he told Harper that whenever Harper had a chance to do the right thing or choose himself, he always chose himself. Unfinished Business wasn’t just the title of Harper’s first book. It was the title of his life because he was always chasing more–more money, more clout, more space, more love even. And Robyn was never going to be enough for Harper because he loved the idea of Jordan. But Jordan and Harper were too much alike. Their careers always came first, so I doubt that they would have lasted as a couple even though they both tried to rekindle what they thought they missed.

Robyn was tired of slaving over the hot stove of commitment for Harper’s lukewarm love, so when the heat went out in the house, so did the heat in their marriage. And Robyn had to find her happily ever after which turned out to be in Ghana much to Harper’s dismay. I wasn’t mad at Robyn for letting go of what was, but I didn’t agree with her taking out Mia of the country without talking to Harper first. Robyn was dead wrong, and Harper had every right to file for joint custody.

Jordan was like so many successful women–smart in business, but dumb in love. Jordan drew a hardline with all of the men in her life–except Harper. Harper was married with a child and Jordan still allowed him to finagle his way back into her heart when she could have closed the door long time ago. Fortunately for Jordan, Shelby could see right through Jordan’s facade and forced her to be honest with herself even if she wasn’t being honest with anyone else.

Even though Shelby and Jordan were friends, Shelby also liked Robyn, and she didn’t condone Robyn sneaking around with Jordan which was ironic seeing as that Shelby solicited Candace’s help to lure Quentin away from Xiomara Amani when Shelby showed up uninvited to the wedding.

After the death of his wife, a heartbroken Lance reverted to his whorish ways while preaching to his son about being obedient to God. Lance was the poster child of toxic masculinity. He believed that there was only one way to be a man and he wanted that for LJ. His namesake; his legacy. LJ was not trans. He was nonbinary and lived along the spectrum of gender. His sexuality was not revealed.

It was a good storyline because it shined the spotlight on non-binary people. People who don’t fit neatly into the categories defined by society, belong to us. They don’t fall out of the sky. So, I appreciate the storyline opening up the conversation. I’m also glad that in the end, Lance found love again with Jasmine.

Julian/Murch was in many ways the opposite of Lance. He was more sensitive and less traditional than his buddies, and sometimes he struggled to find his place. Julian/Murch felt unseen and unheard. He was frustrated and angry and needed an outlet, and he found it.

Candace had a lot going on, but she managed to handle it all without being a stereotypical strong Black woman. I knew her adviser was up to no good, and I was afraid that given her past, Candace was going to just let the issue slide, but she pleasantly surprised me by standing up for herself. Some people are over the Me Too Movement, but girls and women are harassed daily, so kudos to the movie for addressing such a critical issue.

I loved Julian and Candace as a couple. Her goofiness was in perfect alignment with his quirkiness. The two of them struggled to find balance between running their schools, Candace’s Ph.D. work, raising their daughters, and finding time for themselves individually and as a couple, but they made it work.

Who knew I would be Team Shelby? Shelby was a selfish, self-centered egomaniac from Day One. She was in some ways, the female version of Harper because she wanted what she wanted with no regard for anyone else. But Shelby matured after being humiliated by Quentin. She just knew that that last stunt at the bachelor party would send him running back to her and not her slinking off to the airport in the wee hours of the morning.

Quentin was hilarious and also a keen observer who gave great advice when it came to everyone except himself. He was damn near standing at the altar when he realized that the woman he really loved would be gone from his life forever if he didn’t do something fast. Harper wasn’t feeling the relationship between Quentin and Xiomara so he had no issue whatsoever with taking Quentin to the airport to stop Shelby from getting on the plane. As toxic as they started out, Shelby and Quentin were made for each other. She was definitely the yen to his yang.

The Best Man Final Chapter addressed a multitude of issues such as identity, legacy, aging, sexual harassment, racism, and other issues not mentioned. Life happens that way with multiple things happening at the same time. I love the way they supported each other in good times and bad. It was a true testament to the necessity and the beauty of real friendship. We should all be so blessed to have friends like this.

Wakanda Forever is a cinematic meditation on loving and grieving.

I enjoyed Black Panther. I saw it multiple times in the theater, bought the DVD, and earlier this year, I celebrated Juneteenth by listening to a live orchestra perform the soundtrack while watching the movie. I love, love, love all things Black Panther because it was more than a movie. It was a bridge for Black people living in the present because the movie was a nod to the ancestors through culture and rituals and a peek into the future with its emphasis on afro-futurism. The fictional world of Wakanda gave us real-life mirrors of ourselves living and loving despite the obstacles we face daily. So, yep I am an unapologetic Black Panther aficionado.

Like so many others, I was shocked and saddened by the death of Chadwick Boseman. He was T’Challa aka, the Black Panther. I admire his body of work. And I appreciated his down-to-earth persona. He always presented himself as a cool guy. I remember watching interviews and marveling at the camaraderie of the cast members. They seemed to genuinely like each other. They were colleagues; they were friends; they were family.

So, I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for Ryan Coogler to write and direct Wakanda Forever, the sequel to Black Panther given the untimely death of Boseman following the wildly successful debut of Black Panther.

Though I watched the teaser, I didn’t read any reviews. I’m not a big fan of sequels because it’s rare that they measure up to their predecessor. And a sequel is more challenging if the original film is a fan favorite. The sequel to Black Panther seemed impossible to complete given the circumstances and yet the cast and crew made the impossible possible. I didn’t know what to expect in Wakanda Forever, but I went in with an open heart and mind because I knew this movie had to be hard to make.

Wakanda Forever did not disappoint! It is Black Love on the Big Screen on full display, and it was beautiful to behold. The cast wasn’t just grieving the loss of a character, but of a friend, a brother, and a son. One of my favorite images from Black Panther is a picture of Michael B. Jordan embracing Boseman in a tender moment of brotherhood that the public was eavesdropping on.

I saw Wakanda Forever twice. I’m not a crier when it comes to movies, but I kept rubbing my hand across my chest to soothe my rising grief at the memories of those I loved and lost. I was there with Shuri mourning–my mother, my father, my sister, and others who left their imprint on my life. I rode the roller coaster of emotions as I too passed through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

We experienced a deep sense of loss because most of us have stood in the shoes of the cast and their characters. The passing of someone we love looms large over our life. And there is an undeniable ache that dulls over time but never quite goes away. It is the price we pay for love.

As I watched, I was also reminded that we are a nation in mourning. How can we not be following a pandemic, a so-called racial reckoning, the January 6 insurrection, and our own personal traumas? Many of us are not well. We’ve been through a lot collectively and individually, so we need this film to first grieve and then move toward healing.

Bravo to Coogler and his team and the cast for their willingness to allow us to bear witness to their vulnerability and to be cognizant of our own. Before filming, the cast rented a plane and flew to South Carolina, the final resting place of Boseman. And then they came back and went to work to create something that will stay with us long after we leave the theater.

Wakanda Forever brilliantly and lovingly paid homage to the character of T’Challa and the spirit of Boseman. It is a layered, full-circle moment on love and loss that reminds us that the greater the love, the more profound the loss.

Wakanda is forever for me.

Penises don’t belong in the girls' bathroom

This woman, This Ph.D. said

Of a girl coming into her own who only wanted to pee in peace

But can’t because penises don’t belong in the girls’ bathroom

This highly educated woman is not an anomaly

In thinking these men in dresses

These boys playing dress up — are just excuses

For finding warm, tight spaces of girls’ vaginas in the girl’s bathroom

But so many penises pop up

In places other than the girls’ bathroom

Pushing themselves into vaginas that don’t bleed

To keep secrets she told me

A penis in the bed

Of a 13-year-old asleep until awakened by her uncle

While His mother, Her grandmother sleeps who tells me —

“My son would never do that.”

I remember the penis

In the hospital emergency room

A toddler clinging to her daddy

Mommy tests positive for an STD

And baby too

Where is the rage, the furor for the penises

That roam and find themselves in the private places of little girls

In exchange for candy or a special treat

As long as his secret they agree to keep

Penises at the family reunion

Across from the dinner table

The mother’s boyfriend

The stepfather

The youth pastor

But penises don’t belong in the girls' bathroom

The place where they can do harm when a transgender girl

Just wants to pee in peace

The pervert with the penis in women’s clothes

is a monster in the minds of those

Who refuse to see the monsters

that move in broad daylight and

Put their penises in places

Uninvited

Permission granted through our silence

While we scream that

Penises don’t belong in the girls’ bathroom

I’ve had a recurring dream for nearly three weeks now. I’ve been transported back in time to my enslaved ancestors. In the dream, I’m crouched down in the woods trying to figure out my fate. The choice between bondage and freedom. What is there to ponder? It seems simple enough. Choose freedom. But the “free” in freedom is far from free.

I hear the hounds in the distance. I know it won’t be long before they pick up my scent. I’ve been hiding for awhile now. My heart beats loudly in my ears. Just run. Freedom is on the other side, I tell myself. On the other side of what though? Can I go back? Do I want to go back? Can I go forward? Do I want to? Am I willing to take the risk?

Harriet Tubman is expecting me. She knows I’m supposed to be here. I see her and her posse approaching. I’m confused at the sight of the bright red shirts they’re wearing. I see the shadow of the gun that history has told me she carries. It’s said that Harriet would shoot a runaway before she’d let them turn back. Do I step into the unknown knowing that there is no turning back? The sounds of the hounds are getting closer. Footsteps are coming toward me. What I know is I may die today — die at the hands of the hounds or by the gun of Harriet, but before I can decide, I wake up.

This is the limbo I find myself in as Chicago Public Schools reopens its doors to students for the first time since March of 2020. Teachers and support personnel are being phased back into the buildings. Some pre-K and cluster teachers have already returned to work. Some have defied the order to go back into the buildings. They are trying to continue to teach remotely or have camped out, outside of their schools refusing to go inside. They are not being paid and face disciplinary action.

There are stories of teachers showing up to work and being told that the PPE is for when in person learning begins despite it being reported in the news that all personnel will have access to PPE. Since teachers are working alone in their classrooms, they don’t need PPE they’ve been told. I read an account of a teacher who refused to report to the building, but who continues to try and telework but her days have been denied. She is a single income family. She wants to stay the course but she feels alone. She’s getting lots of love from her comrades. But the love she’s getting online won’t pay her bills or feed her children.

We get 10 days off for the holiday break, but we’re only paid for 5 of those days. I spent more money this Christmas to fill the void of not being able to see my loved ones in person. It’s winter in Chicago. We’re in the midst of a pandemic and the Chicago Teachers Union is tossing around the idea of a strike — at least that it was mentioned in the last call I was on. There are those who are adamant about not returning to the buildings, and don’t understand why people like me are crouched down in the woods trying to make a life altering decision. My reality is that I’m over 50 with too many years and too much experience. If I don’t return when K-8 resumes, what are my chances of getting hired somewhere else if I’m fired from CPS? If I become gravely ill or die, finding another job won’t matter will it?

We want children to follow protocols that adults have all but abandoned. A new strain of the corona virus has shown up in the United States. And yet we’re expected to return to work and we’re not even in the next wave to receive the vaccination that has to be taken in two doses 21 days apart. I guess my labor matters more than my life.

The idea of returning to in-person learning while we’re still deep in the throes of a pandemic is frightening. I don’t think it’s safe. The thought of hybrid gives me hives. With everything that’s going on, showing up every day requires effort. In-person learning will require more trial and error, more flexibility and tweaking. I honestly don’t know what that’s going to look like. This pandemic. This social unrest. This fear of what may happen is unnerving. My students deserve better than the shell of me that’s going to return to the classroom this year.

I’m single. No partner. No children, No pets. Outside of an occasional trip down the street to my sister’s house — I made myself a part of her bubble — and walking in the summer with friends, I have been facing this pandemic alone. Zoom has its limitations. The days are cold and dark now. I can’t sit outside and soak up the sun. Trying to get to the other side of this pandemic, teach virtually everyday and try to make sense of a world gone mad, the needle of my capacity to cope with anything else is past E. I got N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

I should read the communications from CPS.

I should read the Communications from CTU.

I should be making a plan to do something. But I can’t. It’s not that I won’t, I simply don’t have it in me to process all that’s being thrown at me. I’m stuck in my dream because I’m stuck in real life. For a long time, I was mindful not to say that what’s going on is too much. I’d say it’s a lot, but never too much because I come from people that have been through worse and survived. I am the product of their tenacity and resilience. But now, it is too much. Elephant-sized anxiety greets me every morning when I wake wondering why am I here between the hounds and Harriet?