Planted in VA. Pollinated in Philly.

Memories of home feel akin to a weathered blanket in a freezing room. She’s in most of these memories—my mother who processes her emotions far too quickly to factor in regret– and he’s there too; my father, taking few things seriously, except the velocity in which he chases pleasure. I studied them, turning my witnessing into stories scrawled in spiral notebooks and readings with a sole audience member: my grandmother. I thank her for always listening and for appearing pleased. 

I must name my grandfather who passed me a copy of WEB Dubois’ Souls of Black Folks and a copy of Daniel Warwick’s will, the enslaver whose last name we carry. He beckoned me to study. Never mind that I was just a pre-teen; he knew I needed these tools before I got swept up in the fantasy of what it meant to defy generational curses. “Getting out is not the sole goal.”

Regardless, it had to be the first one. When I moved north, I intended to tear off the blanket and brace the cold. I still believed I could learn to produce heat on my own.

Unlike my parents, I am slow to know what breaks my heart and what brings me joy. I thought I could begin anew by creating culturally relevant programming for neighborhood kids on the weekends. Or by acting and directing pieces on Blackness seen and unseen. Even today, as a co-founder of a nonprofit that keeps young people in the community, not the carceral system through restorative healing circles, I am still trying to get warm. 

I have a new approach to make this happen. I no longer will try by doing, but instead through being.