Over the course of many years, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly musing on the specific ways my blackness refuses to to accept grief, anger, and their ilk as they are; when it touches me, it often gets transformed somehow.
My response is a long memory.
While I understand that I have plenty to be angry about as a person who thinks about what is happening around them, I also have to allow myself to dance with joy when she offers her hand, whether the dance is long or short.
What my younger self, full of ideals, didn’t understand then, my older self, wearily understands now.
My casket will likely be made out of scientific journals and copies of the bill of rights. I imagine that it will be neatly fitted with all of the journals on how the world just is what it is and how no one complained when Obama was president.