Incessant Black Joy

Parenting is hard for reasons that you can’t begin to write in one post. Its intricate, overwhelming, amazing, frightening, stressful, unbelievably joyous; yet every day I sit before the Creator + wonder “Hey God you sure I’m the right one for this gig?” I look at my son + intentionally teach him how to unravel himself from all the constructs the world tries to enforce upon him. Affirming him is my daily prayer, my first cup of coffee before I enter my day.  It’s complicated!

As a queer + quite unapologetically black woman raising my beautiful black son I am always trying to navigate the land mines that might befall him later. I tell him I love him often so he doesn’t have to wonder. I remind him that he must work hard + it pays off in the long run. I tell him to be grateful for everything. I tell him to anchor himself in something stronger than his ego. I tell him to cry when he needs to + crying doesn’t diminish who he is. I tell him to be free + love hard. I tell him to respect himself + others. Nevertheless, parenting him humbles me.

This picture is a reflection of motherhood which isn’t always synonymous to fatherhood. Being a mother is designed to be a reproduction of a relationship that will be recycled many times before it is completed. My job is to create a space so strong that it celebrates his decision to surpass any doubt the world could ever try to inflict on him. Our bond is sacred + like a shattered mirror, it carries the shards of dismantled patriarchy. Daily we create a new image, one that we can respectfully pass on to other generations with the hopes of a brighter future.