#31DaysIBPOC: An Open Letter to Black Joy

“To be Black is something so special.”

Dr. Bettina Love
Dear Black Joy,

Thank you. 

You have nurtured and sustained me my entire life. 

Before I could even name you, you showed up 
in Grandma’s slender hands 
as she cut articles about my first love, 
Prince, 
out of the newspaper for me to keep. 

When Bobbie Lee’s hands 
clapped in church on Sunday mornings, 
you showed up in fresh-pressed suits 
straight from Uncle Willie’s dry cleaners, 
and the tightly braided, 
fresh out of a bonnet hair of 
little girls like me 
who could not sit still.

You were in the harmonies 
that ushered the Holy Ghost 
into Hurst Chapel A.M.E. Church
and sent church mothers running 
up and down the aisles
to convince us all to 
lift our hands in praise 
and join them in singing 
that we don’t feel no ways tired.

I’ve come too far from where I started from.

When we were all spent,
you awaited me in the church kitchen 
in heaping mounds of macaroni and cheese,
crispy fried chicken, honey-baked ham,
collard greens, green beans,
peach cobbler --
food that seemed to have no beginning or end.
(Everybody knew this alpha and omega 
was Mrs. Moore, though.
We don’t eat just anybody’s cooking.
We don’t know where they’ve been.)

Grandma’s been gone almost four years, 
but you, Black Joy, survived 
in the old Ebony and Jet magazines 
she proudly displayed in her Florida room,
an orange and green sanctuary 
reminding us to give thanks 
for our family’s legacy
at the university on Tallahassee’s highest hill.
My grandmother, Bobbie Lee Mitchell McKennie, graduated from
Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University in 1946.
You outlived the one 
person I thought could look 
death in the face and tell it to 
get to stepping.

You defy all odds!

That a people could rail against 
the horrors of chattel slavery 
for centuries, 
spend every moment since emancipation 
fighting for our humanity 
and have you remain, 
unspeakable, 
in our hearts 
is nothing short of a miraculous
gift from the ancestors.

L
 I
  B
   A
    T
     I
      O
       N
        S

When I left your sacred arms and refused 
to give you the time of day, 
because I was out there 
contorting myself and my dreams to 
please the white gaze, 
you paid my infidelities no mind
and passionately pursued me anyway.
 
You crushed yourself up -- 
like momma used to crush aspirin 
into orange juice
because I didn’t know 
what was good for me -- 
so I would still take you. 

I’m so sorry. 

They taught me all about you,
Black Joy, 
but nobody told me 
white supremacy 
is insidious, 
that it comes, 
like a thief in the night,
to kill and destroy.

I nearly died 
trying to appease it.

But you never stopped 
calling me in (not out)
and I found my way back to you --
the only venue that could host 
all of me,
just as I am --
and relearned how to live 
in community
with people who can 
wholly reflect who I am,
people willing to die 
for my liberation.

Thank you for escorting me 
through doors of return:

the words of the ancestors --
Love makes your soul
crawl out from its hiding place --

the poetry written on my heart --
I rise
I rise
I rise --

the song of my soul--
Shadowed beneath Thy hand
May we forever stand
True to our God
True to our native land --

and those actual doors.
Door of Return in Elmina, Ghana (No, there are no better photos. It was hotter than Hades!)
Thank you for saving 
my place at the table. Thank you
for helping me return -- 
to the coil of my hair, 
the curves of my body, 
the sass of my mouth, 
the music that seizes control 
of my hips and emotions,
the literature that feeds my soul, 
the comedy that conjures 
full-bodied laughter, and the
peace in my heart.

Thank you for giving me back 
vibrant head wraps, 
hoop earrings that touch my shoulders, 
brightly-colored lips,
sister friends, 
and men 
who don’t need the manual 
about how to love a Black woman.

The epitome of Black (educator) joy — love, laughter, and liberation
Thank you for making me love you
so fiercely, so palpably,
that a Mexican little girl
reads "Black Teachers Matter" 
on my t-shirt, rolls her neck,
and says, "That's true!"
in solidarity.

Thank you for drawing me
so close to you
that my rendering of
The Undefeated
touches a young Mexican boy
brimming with machismo so deeply
that he ducks
behind a bookcase
to hide his tears.

Thank you for liberating me.

Thank you for giving me life.

Thank you for reminding me of
how blessed
I am to have overcome
it all
and have the luck
to be
Black and proud
on this Saturday morning
with my vow to you
tattooed on my mahogany skin:
Sankofa.

Love,
Aeriale
Sankofa is a Twi word meaning “go back and get it” and an Asante Adinkra symbol
often associated with the proverb
“It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten.”
This blog post is part of #31DaysIBPOC. Click here to read the previous post in this blog circle by Dr. Kim Parker, and here to read the next post by Dulce-Marie Flecha.

17 thoughts on “#31DaysIBPOC: An Open Letter to Black Joy

  1. Aeriale, from your blog title to your captions, I love this post. The way that Black Joy is brought to life first by your grandma, then by its own power–
    “You crushed yourself up,
    like momma used to crush aspirin into orange juice
    because I didn’t know what was good for me,
    so I would still take you.”
    and then by you yourself–that moment when THE UNDEFEATED opens to call all those children in (not out)–
    thank you for this post.

    Like

  2. Oh, Aeriale. This takes my breath away. This was like a song, a sermon, a poem, and a romp around a room all at once. I wish I had known your Grandma.

    Like

  3. Aeriale, your poem is a mentor text for all of us to claim who we truly are. I recently read Stamped and felt the stab of guilt over and over again because I thought I was an anti-racist while most likely I’ve been an assimilationist. There is really no script for getting away from this; all I can say is I’m trying. Reading your poem helps. Thanks!

    Like

  4. Aeriale,
    This is the most exquisite writing. So many images really touched me- I love the part about your students- the little Mexican girl affirming that Black Teachers Matter and the little boy hiding his tears behind the bookshelf. The parts about your Grandma…the whole stanza “Thank you for giving me back…” This is a mentor text for writing a poem to an idea with words and images that bring me- a white teacher- into another world. I loved your writing and your story.

    Like

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