For the Little Black Girls

"For the Little Black Girls"

Since I was a child, I’ve felt a calling to write—a calling that didn’t receive much encouragement. It just wasn’t something people expected from a little Black girl growing up as one of five kids in a household that depended on food stamps and welfare. Especially not from someone who lost her mother at thirteen.

A teacher? Definitely.

A writer? Girl, please. Stop it.

In those early days, I didn’t feel secure enough to share my work, so I took notes instead.

I observed.
I collected information.
I analyzed.
I argued (in my head and aloud).
I wrote… badly, lol.

Now, there isn’t a good reason not to write—or to keep it to myself. I’ve collected so much life—good and bad—and it’s coming out whether I like it or not. Maybe that’s why I wake up at 3 a.m., harassed by my own soliloquies, lol.

Whether I deem my words gold or garbage, I am compelled to write. I honor that. I surrender to it.

And in the famous words of one of my favorite English professors, I “Write on.”