In November of 2011 my sister gave birth,
Three months before her due date,
Lily came into the world,
And she was perfect.
We cradled her,
We whispered in her ear
We sheltered her
We held her close against our chests
We loved her.
She had milk chocolate skin,
Dark eyes that dared defiance,
And a smile that was entirely too old
for someone who arrived three months early.
In the three years that have passed since then,
She has been inundated by adjectives:
She has been called sweet.
She has been called precious.
She has been called beautiful.
We shower her with love,
and dread the day she leaves the house.
We fear the day that she enters the world,
We fear the day she gets called ugly for the first time
We can see the word on her lips as she echoes it
Her mouth unsure,
Like tasting a flavor it has not yet encountered
Not a spice, salt or sugar,
Something that tastes wholly different
Unlike anything she has ever been exposed to
The taste of cruelty.
We dread the day she holds up a white doll
That she will no doubt be handed
By some well meaning charitable white person
And asks, “Why doesn’t she look like me?”
We dread the day those eyes,
That once held an unquestionable authority,
Glaze over in tears and confusion,
And wonder if maybe
Their hue is anything less than perfect.
We know this will one day happen
We have heard from prophets like Angelou and Morrison
The stories of an era in which racism
Was worn on sleeves and hoods
Before we hid it away,
Before we buried an empty coffin called it dead
Before we named ourselves post racial
And pretended the scars our society sliced into humanity
Had faded into unmarred flesh.
They haven’t.
They are less scars than they are scabs
Wounds waiting within our kids
To be torn open
To spill scarlet once more
To become infected avulsions
The broken results of our children trying to pull out
Beauty standards they had no role in creating
Rotten teeth ideals that both bite and bleed
We have inundated her with adjectives,
In the hopes of using all the space in her heart
Leaving no room for slurs and slander
Leaving no room for hate and anger
Because she is ours and we have claimed her
We will not have her pray for relief from white Jesus
Will not have her weep for blue eyes
We will pray for intercession,
From Pecola, From Claudia, From Frieda
From Rosa, From Coretta, From Alice,
That God would reach down,
With hands as dark as coffee,
And cradle Lily to her breast,
Kiss her like cocoa butter,
Until she loves every inch of herself,
As much as we do.
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