LETTER TO MY MELANATED SISTER

You are beautiful. Not because I think so. Nor because I said so. And I know you don’t need my affirmation, so please hear me out and understand this is more for me than for you. 

But like I said, you’re beautiful. Growing up in the suburbs and going to an all white private Christian school I somehow forgot that. It’s embarrassing. But in full disclosure,I had forgotten the beauty of my sisters for a while. I don’t even think I was conscious of it. I was conscious of race ever since I moved to Georgia when a fellow 7th grader called me a nigger in the locker room. But I still didn’t realize how ignorant I had become to my own prejudice. Ironically enough, it would be the lead that ripped through black men’s bodies that would wake me from my slumber.

The summer of 2016 was hotter than usual. More red than usual. As bullets pierced into the bodies of Philando, Alton, and the officers in Dallas,I became ill. Not simply because it was evident that racism still had a firm grip on this country. I was ill because what I saw in the vast majority of white evangelical space was that black folks had to look after themselves. That’s what was so disheartening. As I looked closer at the problem, I discovered something even more revolting –Black women had to look out for themselves because a plethora of black men weren’t looking for them. 

I checked within and had a mini panic attack. How did I let my own sisters go unchecked, uncovered? I had nothing against the white girl I was dating at the time, nothing except that I felt a responsibility to my black sisters and an assurance that this white girl would be fine without me. The problem was I already loved this white girl. And not because she was white, but because of who she was. And so I stayed, while mourning out of my window looking to my black sisters writing a sorry with my shaking black finger on the clear window with the water from my God breath. But I did not decide to stay without first making sure I saw you. And I do. The only word that comes to mind?

Behold. 

Behold Alexandria. The first girl I ever loved, who happened to be black. She walked into Mrs. Orluck’s first grade classroom like Cinderella (Brandy),and I knew I didn’t just want to play with trucks anymore. A beauty that captivated me in her nose and lips and hair. Oh that hair.

Behold Jodyann. My own flesh and blood who makes sure that the world sees her melanin in its flawlessness. Who has the brains to get into NYU, with the heart to cry when she hears me cry, with the courage to conquer foreign lands, and with the fashion IQ of a Tyra. Who fights colorism even when it could benefit her. 

Behold Tuere. A woman who wears patience like Vera Wang. Who holds her man down like a mother doing her daughter’s hair. Who blends elegance with the streets, walking the wire between the two, like only one raised in Baltimore ever could.

Behold Kali. Have you seen the way the girl handles corporate America? Have you seen the way she not only has endured but flourished in the midst of losing her mother? I guess it’s something in the DNA. A different kind of strength that only centuries of slavery and murder could reinforce.

Behold Ke’Renza. So many people count on her;I wonder how many she could count on. But the way she makes people laugh when they should be in pain. The way she holds people’s pain by holding them when they try to laugh it off. She knows. And I’m so thankful that she does. It’s a pity her father doesn’t really know the caliber of a woman his seed has become. Black men, don’t be so blind.

Behold Laurie. Who lays her heart and her life on the altar and says, “Before I search for a prince, I will know and be known by my King.” Don’t let the quietness of her voice fool you. She’ll never be a damsel in distress, at least not one a mere mortal could save.

Behold Raissa. Powerful in speech, conviction, and smile. Refusing to allow fear, insecurity, doubt, or circumstance take the lead in any girl’s life in her orbit. And giving no place to those things in her own life. She’s not afraid to be strong, even if it intimidates the weak.

Behold Cheyenne. A whirlwind of sorts. Stirring up a tornado with her words, tears, laughter, and service into whatever room she enters. And at the end,the room may look different, but it’s certainly more whole than when she found it. She has those healing qualities you acquire when your ancestors weren’t given access to medical care and 400 years later you can’t be too sure you’ll make it through child birth.

Behold Brittany. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone so difficult to offend and so quick to forgive. I don’t know that I’ve ever known someone that brilliant be that humble. A mystery that may better be left unsolved. Better to be enjoyed than explained.

Behold Amadi. A girl who’s always known how beautiful black is. If I’m being honest, some of the masterpieces on this list went through seasons where they either thought they were not a work of art, or thought that they were in spiteof their color. Not Amadi. She taught me that black was beautiful on the outside, no matter what it went through. And that black was beautiful on the inside, because whatever it went through, it came out the other side better than before. I pray you’re safe.

Behold Gloria U. At 5 feet tall, I don’t know if we’ll ever find a stage that’s big enough for her. Big enough for the weight of knowing your purpose, knowing your calling, knowing your symbolism. And then walking in it.

Behold Sasha. She has a giggle that makes you look past the way she just insulted you. And a kindness that looks past the ways you jokingly insult her in ways that are probably less than edifying. Forgive me.

Behold Lisa-Ann. Talking faster than most can process. Smarter than most can bear. Wiser than most are willing to be. And the crazy thing is, she hasn’t even grown into all that she is to be yet. My God.

Behold Gloria K. Sass and wit that to the untrained ear can mask the way she feels. She feels in a way that gives way to empathy. She feels in a way that will encourage you, and tell you not to tell anyone. Reminds me of that carpenter from Bethlehem.

Behold Audrey. My mother. I’m amazed not at what she’s done for me, but at what she’s done for herself and for me as a byproduct. Born in poverty in a third world country in the final months of the Eisenhower administration,she has no business having multiple degrees, or properties, or professions, or languages. She has no business always finding a way when life would say there is none. She has no business being that mixture of force, poise, conviction, and fearless.

Behold Joyce. My grandmother. Who still has joy after burying not only her husband but her son, my father. Who is as independent as they come. Who is as wise as the gray in her hair suggests. Who is as sharp, as you have to be to raise a teenager in her seventies. 

I beheld, and was at peace again. A peace that I beheld in all of them. I learned recently that peace is not the absence of chaos but the presence of flourishing. And that’s the beauty of my melanated sisters. In the chaos, not natural to them, but one that’s been thrust upon them, they flourish. I stand in awe not because they overcame pain, but simply because of their beauty, beauty that is only enhanced by pain. 

The beauty on the inside was evident, but the beauty on the outside was just as prevalent. I beheld curves that made you sea sick standing on dry land. I beheld skin that didn’t tell on itself. I beheld hair that adapted as fast as black folks have to in awkward conversations. I beheld eyes that had a story they saw in me before I could blink. I beheld lips fashioned for something to say, not just to sing or rap.

I just want you to know, I see you. And I got you. I’m not saying I know for sure I’ll marry someone who looks like us. But I am saying I’d love to. I am saying you’re beautiful. I am saying you’re worth it. I am saying that we wouldn’t know how to process all summer sixteen without your guidance. I am saying I’m thankful. I am saying I’m incredibly attracted. I am saying you’re not forgotten, especially in white evangelical space. And I am saying to any black man that “just isn’t attracted” to black women, I’m praying for your healing, that you’d be able to behold.