A Letter to My Grandfather
It occurred to me then that you’d impossibly waged war against Jim Crow for your entire life to maintain your dignity, and you feared that death would rob you of it. As I said before, I don’t know if people are conscious of their final moments, but I can assure you that you left this world with the same grace and dignity with which you lived.
Do They See You?
You blame something bigger. It’s not you at all. Possibly, it’s the country: the way it feels like it’s designed to work against you and the way your soles crack from running around. You keep trying, putting in the effort. Trying, and yielding to a lack of results. It’s as if the system is broken. As if no matter how hard you try, the soil just won’t give back your results.
One of Those Summer Nights
Then, the noise started. Guns screamed. Humans screamed. Animals screamed. The kid didn’t know which side the screaming guy was on. He learned that dying men scream alike. He was scared. He was embarrassed by his fear, but he couldn’t help it.
Ocean Antidote
I remember longing for death in elementary school. Why am I here? What’s the point of living? No one wants me here. In those moments of desperation, I imagined the ocean’s waves crashing on the shore and beckoning me to reunite with her. The second my feet hit the sand, none of that mattered.
Eid Mubarak, America
I asked my classmates who then referred me to other moms who also spoke to me about what children of color face in school at a young age and how to deal with it. So much figuring out, how to fit in, how to make things better for my daughter — a child growing up in America.
I, too, am California
But this, too, is a California story. Better than the glossy, glamorized image projected on television, this California is real. It’s brown-skinned and frizzy-haired, and mixed-race, and multicultural, and queer, and it’s me. I’m it.
Note from Nonpeople
I come from Nowhere. It has been told to me many times, by many authorities, and government officials, and all sorts of serious people in their decent suits. I see no reason to doubt them. I’d rather doubt your logic.
France Isn’t a Racist Country
“Hey, can you come in and audition for Suburban Arabic Girl Number Four? Basically, you’re with your homies in the subway, and you make a fuss, start yelling at people, throwing things around!”
Sometimes We Dream
Our grandparents sit us down and teach us where we come from: Africa, enslavement, Jim Crow. Our parents tell us where it’s safe to travel and where our brown skin makes us targets. Fear infects our dreams.
Hate Speech
“My Dad doesn’t know that your Dad’s Black; he thinks you’re Mexican, so it’ll be okay.”
Everything Disappears
I think I disappeared in 1968. I think I spent three years in Bahia, but your Aunt Nires said it was much, much longer. Seven she says…I don’t know now. Could it really have been that long? Who knows…
Sunday Mornings
My momma, who woke up before the roosters crowed and before the early birds tickled worms from the earth, was always the last person ready.
I Come to You by Chance
When these words find a place close to you, I hope you hand them an axe to cut through your doors. I hope it breaks through your windows. I hope it gives you sunshine, air, and all the feels to stay open.
Fading Away
My parents are both alive but sometimes I fear that one day, the thread holding their existence in place would snap and all that would remain are memories heaped on history’s back
A Letter to the President of Ghana
The rain falls upon every land where we then have sunshine for all and clean air for all to breathe. But when we convert resources of nature into economic resources, not everybody benefits.
My Passport Photo
I like my passport photos best. My ID card and driver’s license are nothing to me but official certificates of identification. But my passports are permits. Permits for leaving! I know this by experience that any permit to leave is a blessing to me.
Water Dancing
Today we are hyper-focused on our hair because our hair has a history in enslavement, oppression, rejection, and classism. Our hair has a connection to our African ancestors and our white enslavers.
On Feeding a Fed Horse
I don’t always feel at home in most places. Born in Nigeria, in Ilesa, Osun State, I have lived in the United States since I was seventeen. First, in Cypress, TX. Then, in Houston, TX.
Small Town: On the Scope of Sorrow and Beauty
Although called a “resort,” the place is really a trailer park in a small town, pleasantly overshadowed by mountains. Those of us with modest means either vacation here or live in “park model” homes year round.
the Decolonial Passage 