had a talk today. ate my favorite foods today. listened to new and expansive music today. giggled at little kids who wanted to play in my curls today. i watched black people line the busiest streets in New Orleans and choose to be happy, choose to be alive and be unapologetic. Wear their finest fits for weekend outings and find themselves holding up traffic because of their joy. And I find this to be so beautiful. I have been so admittedly sad and depressed these last few days. I have wanted to crawl into a hole and hide, bring my loved ones with me and hold up until Armageddon was over. I had to smile and grit my teeth in the face of certain people who feel so much when they hear about an animal’s death but prance around the subject when it comes to a black man’s body. I had to work among those who waltzed into work, feeling powerful because their privileged clothed them like a veil of truth- when really it’s a guise. Heads held high and truly I was agonized on the inside. I was already torn about the deaths of Muslim bodies overseas and Ya Allah, I wish them and their families heaven as recourse for their tragic deaths, but these black men. Dear God, the way they tear at my soul. Have I said this lately? Have I sung the praises of a black man as of late? Because you are not just an accessory to the latest white girl’s trend. You are more than just numbers and streams and a ball. You are more than what you own, you are life and beauty manifested in God’s highest creation. My love for black and brown men stems to the core of my existence. I came from one, shared my childhood with one, worked with some, became the dearest of friends with them and finally, experienced the most of the transcendent emotions ever with one and loved him. And that cannot be stolen by the deliberate desensitization happening in this country. They can’t steal our joy. They can’t take from me what I love the most. What I do this for. Who I am fighting for. If it’s not my dad, it’s my brother’s face that reminds me of the tender nature of black men. And even when they aren’t tender, goodness, are they mighty … Are they beautiful. Who do you know that has the evolutionary empathy of a black man? The depth of a black man? The complexity and breath of peace that a black man carries? Have you slept in the arms of a black man? Been cradled with the comfort of a black man? Have you seen how he steps, gently to the side whenever his black woman has the floor? Do you see how he looks at her? His heart? Have you seen it? How big it is? The pain that it grew from? Have you heard his laugh? How it stems and blossoms from the depths of his underbelly? Have you? Have you seen his smile, the readiness and the softness in his lips? Have you seen how timid he might get in the spotlight but how mega his opinions are? How much they matter? His love? Have you tasted it? Sweet honey nectar landing in the small of your back and you’ve become transfixed. It’s not just about black lives and bodies and all that physical manifestation of blackness mattering but what makes me fight are the tender moments we share with one another. The unspoken solidarity. The smiles we share from across the room. Knowing looks. I have never been treated more aptly than when I am in the presence of my people and that, that feeling whether it is among my black men or my sisters, that feeling is what I am deciding to fight for.