To Be Black + In Love

On most days, I am praying for my wife + all the unions that deserve to penetrate darkness. Some weeks my to-do list is just to love her so I stay shackled to humility ensuring that my ego stays beneath my longings to do right. Heartfelt + intentional I seek to exhibit a commitment that resurrects everyday just to succeed.  My only wish is to close the gap of the incessant reminders of unresolved trauma. Daily I am reminded of the extraordinary people that have covered my struggles with a blanket of stars as a testament that we can survive. Perhaps our love can cover a multitude of transgressions.  So we love…

I love her from a space that concealed dreams + suppressed screams. I adore her from a galaxy of misdirected anger + shame. I cherish her from a universe of parents that bottled rage from having to look away + grin at people that recycled hate. I esteem her from a cosmos of being too black to some + not black enough to others. It’s complicated. I revere her from a capacity of coming home to vacant spaces while mothers carried the burden of playing a fictitious character that never seemed compassionate or loving enough. I honor her from an era that requires acceptance but is often too guarded to request it for fear of it being used as artillery. I am devoted to her from a place that is subjective + protective; therefore, I fight for our love.

So when you see a black couple modeling love; give thanks because divorce wants to swallow generations + dismantle homes. Therefore, when you witness a black couple raising secure children; give thanks because someone is watering the soil of self –worth. Being a black couple who decides to keep promises while showing up every day is a revolutionary act that reminds others that eating hemlock is reversible + we can bless the things we lost. I now realize that we can still learn to build homes in places that were never damaged.