My Beloved Black Ancestors

My Beloved Black Ancestors I am writing to you from my Harlem apartment, asking you to join me in my living room. Lean into me so that I may feel your presence. I come to you in a familiar form, as a tired Black woman. I need to write my thoughts down and out.

My Black is aching.

My Black is numb.

My Black is overburdened and bone.

I first experienced racism in elementary school, when my white best friend decided she wanted nothing more to do with me. I stood on the playground crying that day, asking her in front of all the sweaty kids on the monkey bars and swings why she wouldn’t talk to me anymore. I first experienced racism when she walked away without a word, opting to hang out with the other white girls instead, in search of popularity, beauty, and self-worth. She learned that racism from her mother. The same mother who held me culpable for her daughter’s poor behavior and who spoke to me with condescension; a white mother who had a certain way of looking at my Black mother over dinner. I know that in the summers prior to the end of our relationship, my friend and I wrote each other letters incessantly. I know that she sprayed