As Bill Withers plays in the background about grandma’s hands, I look down at my own. I have my grandmother’s hands. They are small with fat fingers. I once was told they looked like Vienna sausages. I simply laughed and said, “No
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The clock on the kitchen wall said 8:45 pm. Fifteen more minutes and Trysten would be in bed. I stood in front of the sink looking out the window into the darkness of the backyard. The moonlight was faint and I could
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My grandma’s house was always full. The hinges on the front door were almost invisible. In the heart of Cleveland, Ohio, not a side town along the way, but real Cleveland, is where I stayed. In the white paneled house with red
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“My name is Tavonne Carson. I’m six years old.” If she hadn’t said my name, I wouldn’t have believed the little girl calling from the speakers of the old boom box was me. Steady and brilliant, that voice spoke to a part
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When Helen lands in her birth country, nobody is there to greet her. The deathly heat from the Caribbean sun can’t penetrate the chill she feels of being alone. She looks around at the people that walk past her, their eyes gliding
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When I arrive, the first part of the journey is to walk past the avid chain smoking of the other residents. Each person dealing with their own thing, each person somebody’s someone. My someone lives on the second floor. The first resident
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Jocelyn found it hard to focus on the date, although it had been the only thing occupying her mind until she got the text from her daughter. And just like that, she was split in half. Part of her brain trying to
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Sydnee glanced at her phone and saw a text from her mother, Marilyn. Sometimes she wished she had never taught her mother how to use her smartphone. She reluctantly unlocked her phone and read the disjointed message. Sydnee. Come get from church.
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I typed the letter on a regular morning. But obviously, it was a courageous morning. I typed the letter in the dark because I had just woken up from a restless night. And restless nights have been typical for me. I live
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As Bill Withers plays in the background about grandma’s hands, I look down at my own. I have my grandmother’s hands. They are small with fat fingers. I once was told they looked like Vienna sausages. I simply laughed and said, “No
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As a kid, I remember the subject of race coming up twice in our family. The first time was when my brother began checking out the white girls in his grade. The second was when I began checking boxes for race on
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I need to remind myself that Mama is human, that she is not endless love, and food, and sacrifice. But she makes it hard to do. When I tell you I was raised Catholic, I mean I was raised by Mama: a
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“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” — Audre Lorde Dear Amaya, I waited so long for you. Well before your mother told me she was pregnant, I
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“Have you considered writing a book about your life?” It is likely someone has asked you this question, or maybe you have asked someone. Before my ancestry journey, I never thought of my life as interesting enough to manifest into spilled ink,
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Let me start by giving my parents the grace they deserve. My mother was only sixteen when she had me, and the only thing I know about my parents’ relationship is that they loved each other, and I was wanted. They always
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