12pm.
The AC breeze chills my legs as I sit at the wooden breakfast table, watching the gentle hands of Nia delicately braid the hair of Neta; cornrows styled with snatched baby hairs and a clean undercut, the East African aura comes to light again through her crown. The three of us Black femmes share the living space as we vent about the inadequacies of Black cis men, project mentality, gentrification, Beyonce’s new single, and the essence of the “shadow-self” in Jordan Peele’s Us: I think back to being a complete fool with Lasay and De'Jena while dancing in the dorm halls to the movie soundtrack.
At last, my lungs receive the breath of fresh air they have longed for ever since the rebellious flames overwhelmed our feeds and the pleas of George ached our hearts, our bodies well accustomed to the song of Black Sorrow. Quentin joins our conversation, filling the space with more queer energy that amplifies the laughter and loud sighs. We build off of each other’s insights, snap our fingers in affirmation, letting our Blackness reign free. The low tune of Miles Davis’ trumpet soothes my ears as Quentin’s weed tempts my lips. I skip on a hit to bathe my presence in the moment;
Black collective care.
Yesterday reminded me of how we Black people have created spaces free from the white gaze, existing in solace among each other. How beautiful is it that the artistry of hair styling always ushers in hours of enriching conversation, nurturing, expression, and learning when manifested by Black people. It was almost like I was six again, sitting on those stacked, olive green pillows while in between the thighs of granny as she tied colorful beads to the end of my fresh cornrow style that trembled my legs with excitement; I was one second closer to shaking my head freely to enjoy the sound of the beads clash together, then hurrying home to show them off to Neta and mom.
Sitting at ease yesterday reminded me that spaces free of violence and constant stimulation are needed for our survival. It reminded me of how Black folks of the Harlem Renaissance knew we needed to carve spaces in the form of cozy salons, barber shops, and family living rooms, where we could, as bell hooks says, break through the walls of our unreconciled pain. They knew then, when the polyester ropes of the white man lynched our brethren, as we do now, when the metal bullets take our trans sisters, that our spirits thrive in an atmosphere free of violence.
It is okay for us to unplug, shut out the world for a few hours, drink a tall glass of water, and find ease in our Blackness with our fellow skin folk. Rest is often sidelined as the need to constantly do remains a resounding alarm in my head. It is a constant uphill self-battle to normalize such an idea into my psyche.
But Nia reminded me that the deep internal work within ourselves is one of the most powerful forms of liberation. Getting in touch with our “shadow,” the unacquainted tether locked in our subconscious who is eschewed by our conscious ego; touching it, feeling its teeth we often run from; identifying our flaws, radically accepting them, then embracing the complex process of self-evolution.
The Black Space is a healing place.