black lives Archives | midnight & indigo

Wigs, Wine, and Wisdom: A Tale of 1960s Black Sisterhood

Toya Qualls-Barnette — Sun, 25 Jan 2026 05:00:56 +0000

Auntie Cee was a real boss, a Human Resources specialist with swag back when Black women were ghosts in corporate board rooms. No blood relation, but as much family as anyone who shared my bloodline. Mom, an insurance agent, met her when they both worked at a Fortune 500 company in the ‘60s and halfway through the ‘70s. Their commonalities and differences molded a journey of lifelong friendship, not without cracks. Besties who stuck together like magnets to metal. Auntie, from a close-knit brood of twelve brothers and sisters, decidedly single with no interest in traditional family life, had never

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A Black Girl’s Guide to Colonics and Colonialism

Jamila Tull — Sun, 02 Nov 2025 04:00:15 +0000

The ad I saw on Groupon for an “Atlanta Colon Hydrotherapy Session” was a photo of a white woman making a heart on her stomach with her hands. This would not be my first colonic, so I was looking forward to the familiar feeling of becoming so full that I could pop, followed by the satisfying release that would leave me perfectly raw and empty. I imagined my insides as sparkling kitchen countertops—clear and scrubbed clean. A fresh start after a long stretch of eating junk. When I arrived, I opened the door to the small office and was immediately

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when i was just a little girl

Tina Scott Lassiter — Sun, 17 Aug 2025 04:00:32 +0000

when i was just a little girl… …my paternal grandma taught me to cook what she called succotash. her recipe read – – stew canned tomatoes with chopped onions, seasonings and skin-on, bone-in chicken (‘cause skin & bones add flavor) until the meat falls off the bone; add freshly shucked corn and lima beans; simmer until the beans get soft. she put some bacon fat in hers, something i decided to forego as an adult, not because i don’t indulge in a little pork every now and again. i just don’t have that canister of bacon grease that both of

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From Eden to Gethsemane, and All the Gardens Thereafter

Sienna Morgan — Wed, 14 May 2025 04:00:32 +0000

What did it mean for a black woman to be an artist in our grandmothers’ time? In our great-grandmothers’ day? It is a question with an answer cruel enough to stop the blood. — Alice Walker My maternal grandmother’s name was Dorothy Chandler Collins. She was born on August 13, 1916. Ma, as we affectionately called her, birthed and raised 13 children, 3 boys, and 10 girls, and had the greenest fingers. Supporting herself and her children as a widow in 1961, she found subsistence in planting and harvesting crops in the fields of Dortches, Battleboro, and Red Oak, North

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State of Emergency

Abigail Jordon — Wed, 26 Feb 2025 05:00:22 +0000

Monday, August 29, 2005; 6:45 AM The vibrant, psychedelic colors of a long-forgotten Spongebob Squarepants episode draining into a black void were the first signs that something was wrong. One moment, the antics of a yellow sponge and a bubblegum pink starfish filled the screen of our clunky, gray TV set. The next moment, my youthful reflection gawked back at me, perplexed. Our TV had a habit of acting up, often displaying fuzzy gray squiggles that would cloud the program. We regularly gave it a good thump on its side, producing a deep hollow noise. This action usually coaxed it

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There is a Police Officer in My Foyer

Nicole Chulick — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 05:00:44 +0000

The first time my white neighbor called the police it was during the renovation of our historic house in the deed-restricted neighborhood where we live. This is my not-so-subtle way of acknowledging my privilege. I proudly proclaim my lack of confidence in my indignation. It feels unearned. America likes its angry Black women best when we are poor and husband-less and mourning. I’m simply angry and Black. I apologize if that is not enough. The call came while my family was vacationing, riding horses in the mountains of Colorado, so our contractor dealt with it. None of this is endearing,

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Holding Space: A Therapist and Her Therapist

Dr. Jessica Desalu — Wed, 05 Feb 2025 05:00:57 +0000

Therapy is the supportive process of accompanying one’s journey of transcendence from darkness to light to darkness again, ultimately landing somewhere in the middle. Therapy is an experience I wish for us all. And that is all that it is: a wish—because therapy is a privilege. Therapy is one of the few privileges of my life as a Black woman. My privilege is multiplied as I am both a therapist and a therapy client. These two parts of myself are in a beautiful marriage, evolving each other. It is an honor to support others’ transcendence. It is a blessing that

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All I’ll Remember is the Music

LySaundra Janeé — Wed, 29 Jan 2025 05:00:42 +0000

I saw The Notebook musical on Broadway during a Full Moon in Scorpio. Yes, I am an astrology nerd and this Full Moon in Scorpio matters because Scorpio is in my fourth house of family, elders, and foundations, and I thought I was fine most of the day until I arrived at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre. Emotions started to overwhelm me before the show began. I saw one of the leads, Joy Woods, in a different show and wanted to see her in this role, given how phenomenal she was. Plus, I love a good love story. I forgot, however,

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Where Do Crickets Fly?

Ari Beri — Tue, 14 Jan 2025 05:00:43 +0000

Thousand Oaks, California I flew from coast to coast when I was nine years old. My father found work in August and in September, he shepherded our family from Silver Spring, Maryland to Thousand Oaks, California. I still had wings then. And lungs strong enough for the journey. We arrived in the West on a heavy, unwelcoming wind and I watched the landscape as it became desert. There were new things here. Plants, armed with spikes, grew sturdy from the ground that lined the road to our new home. Palm-sized lizards moved as shadows on the beige pavement, hardly distinguishable

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Little Girls, What Has Ruined You?

Kay Bell — Wed, 08 Jan 2025 05:00:34 +0000

Grandmothers Some little girls, with plaits and blemishes, cook rice and jerk chicken as the heat crawls down their spine in the shack. They wipe tears of beach water and vulnerability from their walls of sacrifice. They eat dinner, wishing they had a TV or mum, or dad, to tell them things will get better: one day. They stroke photos of their mummies, gone to big cities. Mummies who send money every month to buy food and pay the rent. Mummies who never call. Mother I need, mother I need, mother I need your blackness now as the august earth

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