I Call You

An ode to my mom ❤

I called you when I couldn’t call anyone else before 9pm on weekdays

I called you for advice during my first babysitting job

I called you to tell you how the Eiffel Tower glowed.

I called you when we couldn’t follow the directions for mac-n-cheese and the microwave starting smoking.

I called you from the Miami airport before and after building an orphanage.

I called you when I was sick at 4am in Cusco.

I called you incoherent with elation when I got accepted into the Disney College Program.

I called you, shocked, when I got asked out the first time

I called you from the side of the highway when my car engine blew.

I called you as I held back the tears on the stressful days at work.

You always answered.
You solved my problems.
You gave me direction.
You picked me up.
You talked me through the moment.

You answer.

Thanks for always answering.

A Letter to My Black Sister

Dear Jalena,

When you grow up, you will ask me about Ferguson, Missouri, and about Darren Wilson.

I hope to God I don’t blink and ask, “Who?”

But I know I will have to tell you about how our Queen City joined in with riots.  How my best friend was too afraid to come visit me, and that made me more angry than Darren’s murder.  How I didn’t think it was that big of a deal and that racism was a previous generation’s problem.

I’ll tell you, too, about the Black man with a beautiful, booming voice who stood outside the police department I walked past to get to the bus stop as he shouted, “No Justice: No peace!  No justice: no peace!”  And I’ll tell you how I knew right then I’d never forget it, and that I still hear his cry in my mind.

But I’ll also tell you that he scared me.  And I am so sorry.

When you grow up, you might ask me about Trayvon Martin and I’d have to tell you I had no idea he was murdered until years too late.

When you grow up you’ll ask me how it all happened.  I’m learning and unlearning and relearning right now, baby girl, so when you ask I’ll have that answer.

I’ll have to tell you about the polarization and how politicized everything became.  How the worth of your life and how you should deal with it were debated in any online space available.  How underpaid and overworked the police were.  I’ll explain how the systems in place were against you from the beginning.  That the previous generation’s problem was inherited from the generation before them and it had most definitely been passed down to our generation. I’ll tell you what you already know at such a young age: that the people didn’t understand.  We didn’t understand.

When you grow up, sweet baby girl, you’ll ask me about Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd.  You’ll say they didn’t mean to be martyrs.

I’ll tell you you’re damn right.  And I’ll tell you how our Queen City responded.  The people came together and protested each day without ceasing, demanding justice, demanding change.  They compiled lists of Black-authored books to read, Black speakers to listen to, and Black-owned businesses to purchase from, and that they did those things they promised.  Charlotte artists painted Tryon Street in bold, colorful letters proclaiming loud and clear that you matter.  You matter.

Jalena, you matter.

When you grow up, you’ll ask me what I did about the injustice and the violence, and if I was afraid again.

I’ll tell you that I stood in front of the police department for myself among a thousand and we shouted together, “No justice: no peace!”