Night children with wild hearts 

That's all we were

Spirits cupped in our palms

Mated, as we held hands

Everything I felt for you

Never dwarfed by the inconstant

Of our physical 

Lurking mortality

Living in the mundane, with you

Made me forget every letter 

That crafted the word

Life was never boring with you

Never dulled or dimmed

Even as the sky told us everyday

Light caged in your chest.

I looked hard and found 

Pieces 

Of me

Embedded in your flesh

I am bound to you 

And by form and night dances 

Souls akin, connect

You tread through me

My veins tingle

You strum me

I am yours 

Undeniably 

I fight, futile

Intoxicated, I quake

Sickly sweet melodies, you are in my head

I can not shake you

Even if I ran to the ends of the world, 

Our hearts at each pole 

Time would always be gracious enough 

To unite us again 

We are tied 

Not to this earth, soil, or sky

But to each other

We are boundlessly bound

To each other 

running w a t e r

She is fluid
Her words move through your bones

She makes you feel
Tracing herself down your back
And back up your spine

You shutter at her presence
No small man can take her

Her streams tread permanent paths
You think her to be simple, like faucet water
While drowning in her depths
You will never truly know her
Trapped in the shallow end
Life jacket on, feigning safety
Denial

Dehydrated
Dirty
Downtrodden
Distressed
Depressed

Water is life
She saves you

Thank You: An Open Letter to Sharon G. Flake

Dear Ms. Sharon G. Flake,

A couple weeks ago, as I was gearing up to walk across the stage to receive my degree from the University of Pennsylvania, I was frantically running around with some last minute errands. In my frenzy, I was at the Penn Bookstore trying to sell some unwanted books and lighten the load that would have to be carried all the way back to Brooklyn with me after move-out. While walking out of the bookstore, I glanced over the table and saw your book "The Skin I'm In" perched neatly on a table with other childhood classics. This made me stop dead in my tracks. This book, introduced to me as a timid ten year-old girl, suddenly very cautious of who she was in this world, opened my eyes to something that would be so important in my years as an emerging adolescent and future adulthood: self-love. I remember not being able to put the book down, diving deep into the pages and walking in the footsteps of Maleeka Madison, her pain mimicking mine. I never realized the importance of books like this while growing up, and never noticed the importance of representation across literature in general. Yet, I was that child who LOVED Roger and Hammerstein's version of "Cinderella"and could recite it word for word (songs included). This was the moment I realized why it all matters. 

Ms. Flake, you taught me the power of self-preservation, long before I would come across Audre Lorde in my college years. As a young child, I was not plagued so heavily with low self-esteem because I knew, to some extent, there were people who looked like me and loved exactly who they were, including how they looked. I never sought extreme measures to alter who I was or to embrace something that was not me. Although I still struggled to be fully confident in who I was, and to find the kind of self-discovery that warrants that confidence, your books help lightened that load, and brighten my road. I became a better writer (I have a poem called "Chocolate Coated Girl" that I wrote in middle school, the rest is history), a scholar, and a fierce advocate for self-love. Although the individual impact you have made on me might seem small, you have freed me from a host of personal dismay, and welcomed me to a world of love via Black Girl Magic. I am eternally grateful for the work you continue to do that uplift little ten year old girls like me to become audacious black women who love themselves fiercely and unapologetically. Thank you. That moment in the bookstore, just hours away from graduation, was when everything came full circle for me. It was a moment where the current and past me were presently looking at each other, your book in hand and heart, ready to conquer the world set before us, with love and compassion. 

So, with love and unending gratitude, I say thank you. 

Sincerely,

Shakele Seaton

Dying of Thirst: Beyond Black Rage

I had a conversation with my friend the other week concerning the explosion of protest culture that we are suddenly submerged in. “When Trayvon Martin was murdered, people marched in every major city, and still, not a damn thing was done about it. Zimmerman still walked free, and not much has changed since then… While I am upset about what’s going on, I can’t walk around being angry all of the time Kelly. I have to live. I have to survive."

I reasoned with him that it is necessary to be angry. There was a point and time when black folks were forbidden from expressing such rage, lest we would be killed or maimed. Despite the fear and misconceptions surrounding Black rage (misconstrued to promote inherently criminal behavior), it is a perfectly healthy response to a system that has shown us time and time again that white supremacy is rampant, and those  subjected to it are constantly devalued. Today, protesting has become a manifestation of that rage. While I cannot and do not condone any of the other violent manifestations of rage (looting, robbing, killings, etc), I do understand that it is naive of us to think that all of those who are constantly victimized and made to feel powerless on a daily basis, after exhausting every other peaceful option and finally succumbing to nihilism, would resort to more violent behavior. It is a product of frustration and the constant tensions Blacks face trying to escape the social control of racism. Not to mention that several news media stations are eager to only display this play-by-play of angry Black people, reinforcing the racist fears of white America. With all that bombards the black psyche, it would be a breach of one’s sanity to not release this rage. Even those well-integrated in  professional settings with white people feel rage, maybe even more so, and endure the psychological stress in figuring out how to handle it. Expressing rage is not only a form of catharsis, but a mode of survival. Simply put, black rage is a natural reaction to gross injustice, and a necessary component in properly progressing towards ensuring our rights be upheld.

While I understand the importance of physical protest as it stands to affect change, I completely understand that simply, for many, life has to go on. We cannot dwell in rage, we must move beyond it. I make the comparison to feminism. It means many different things to different people. One may feel empowered by radically asserting their power of choice in dress, or in protesting for equal wages to men. However, feminism can mean just being able to survive as one sees fit. The root of feminism is freedom. We are in no place to dictate what that may mean for everyone. It is a matter of perspective. I am always wary of the privileges that color my own lens, as I can sometimes only sympathize with the plight of those in a different condition than I. That does not mean that I cannot support them. That means that we must take the time to listen to them, listen to their needs, start the conversation, and most importantly, do not hastily assume that everyone is oppressed and should live a life that constantly reflects that.

Although cultural affinity is a positive way to identify an allegiance within the black community, it is not every black person’s duty to make their lives a showcase for fighting for justice for black lives. Many of us want our lives to be symbols of resistance, and to be at the forefront of every social justice movement, which is fine. However, for some, they just want to earn a decent living, make sure their children are educated, fed, and clothed, and to just be able to exist peacefully. That is what is most important for many people’s day-to-day, and that has to be acceptable to everyone. While we may not share that same view, we must not diminish someone else's view of life and accomplishment because it differs from ours.

So this is my pledge to always keep an open mind. To always interrogate my condition and of those around me. To be aware (#StayWoke). To always be challenging injustice, prejudice, racism, sexism, classism, ableism, and all of the -isms of oppression. To keep the uncomfortable conversations going among family, friends, colleagues and allies. To extend a hand to others. To feel the rage, but not let it consume me. And to go beyond anger, striving for peace through and by any means necessary.

A lot of keys unlocked me
My soul is scattered in different places
I am impressionable

Fingertips firmly on my cheek
A low hum in my neck
Tumbling into my belly

All of the colors

Dark purples
Earthy browns
Ripe yellows
All so melancholic
Delicious

Gray

We were cold
And you were gone
I smile, dumbfounded and kicking my brain
For ever letting you into the soft matter
Of my heart

Starry-eyed
All I see is black and white

I just wish you could've said thank you