I remember sitting next to my father's hospital bed. It was November 4, 2008. The television was showing election results. At this point, my father could no longer speak but he watched as Barack Obama was declared the winner. Two nurses – one Black and one white – stood in the doorway of my father's room and clapped. I leaned in and said to my father, "We did it." He nodded. I felt a swell of pride. My father, born in 1928, had cast an absentee ballot for the first Black President of the United States. I felt like it closed a chapter for him. My father passed away four days later.

My father didn't live to see today. He didn't live to see Barack Obama pen an open letter to police officers. In this letter, in the midst of violence at the hands of police that continues to ravage communities of color, he stood in solidarity with police officers in their "tumultuous hour." The letter contains a phrase that speaks volumes; it is a phrase that he has never explicitly uttered to the Black Americans who hoisted him on their shoulders. Instead, he directed these words to officers, to an institution which continually abuses and snatches lives away from his Black constituents.

It was 1995. My sister put up streamers and red, white, and blue balloons. Holidays were her thing. She’s festive in that way. I remember that feeling I got when I stepped outside...stunting...’cause everybody knew you got a new outfit for the 4th. Blackfolks strutting around, embodying cool, donning emblems of our freedom in a place that never imagined freedom for us. Because, even in the midst of feeling less than free, you can't outdo Black people.

My dad would take all the boys in his big white boat of a Fleetwood Cadillac to the fireworks tent across state lines in Mississippi. (The sale of fireworks was illegal in Tennessee) We grabbed our baskets and filled them with the perfect mixture of shit that glows, pops, and explodes: sparklers, colorful smoke bombs, firecrackers, and that little tank that only moves an inch before bursting into flames. 

Seeing. 
Being seen.
Seeing yourself for who you are and not for what you've been told about yourself.

Because visibility matters.
It doesn't have to mean visibility as in "coming out," for some of us were never living behind a closet door. Some of us sat in the room with you, in a corner, crouched and afraid. Shrinking. Shielding ourselves. 

Some of us blazed into the world, somehow bold by birthright. Assured at a young age and seeing the beauty of ourselves incrementally rather than through a spark or explosion of self-actualization. 

But we were there. In the room with you. You refused to see. And if we were holed up in a closet – for protection, for solitude, or to allow for gestation and blossoming – we do not always feel the need to come out. Our world is enough. It's not always important for us to come into yours. 

Unbreakable, Janet Jackson’s first studio album in seven years, has been released to a flurry of awaiting fans. Janet is noticeably covered during this era. Her bare skin and bodysuits are absent. The music is more reflective, and decidedly less overtly sexual. This renewed modesty is reminiscent of 1980s Janet. It feels deliberate. Her beauty has not faded. Her sex appeal and presence have not waned. She is fully capable of being the sexually provocative woman she has always been. She chooses not to be that. She doesn’t have to be. If anything, in an industry that is replete with hyper-sexuality, Janet's restraint feels provocative. For a woman of color in an industry which rarely allows women of color to have agency over their bodies and call their own shots, Janet is being a woman on her own terms. 

Like Cher and Madonna, Janet exists as a single name. She doesn’t need a surname. She is a force. However, in the same sense as Whitney and Aretha – two women who are also recognizable by only their first names – Janet’s presence and legacy demands that we refer to her as Janet Jackson. Miss Jackson. She commands this respect. Janet is a brand. Janet Jackson is a woman; a woman who is to be respected, revered, and lauded. Janet shows us the full extent of her womanhood. She remains notoriously tight-lipped and private without feeling robotic. We know Janet Jackson. She is her art. Her music is her life.

Ode to Black Joy: Coping in the Midst of F-ckboys

Folks. Black folks. Brown folks. Feeling on the ground folks. Hug each other. Spread some love. Somebody needs it today. Even if you don't feel it, watching terrorism unfold and seeing black bodies lying in the street on a daily basis is taking its toll. It's meant to take its toll. Yell. Scream. Cry. Punch the wall (but be careful if you're uninsured).

Engage in some healing. Do something black. Something unapologetically black. Read some Baldwin. Listen to some Nina Simone. Make some drapes out of that leftover mud cloth. Plan a fish fry (but don't let Sister Odell cook because she put too much sage in the dressing last time). Find the raunchiest 2 Live Crew song you can find and twerk until you can't sweat anymore. Call your great aunt and ask her to tell you that story about that 1956 camp meeting in Como, Mississippi. Go to the creek and wade in the damn water for old times sake.

In a string of extrajudicial killings and injustices in America, Baltimore is the latest city to gain widespread media attention for uprisings surrounding police brutality, racial discrimination, and systemic oppression. The world watched as the portions of the city burned after a period of peaceful protesting erupted into calamity. The media presence, which had been notably absent during the peaceful protests and the years of struggle experienced by Baltimore’s poor and marginalized residents, has documented the upheaval and characterized the uprising as savage riots and labeled the rebels as miscreants and thugs. 

Once again, public debates flared and people weighed in. Chastisements disguised as suggestions have urged the people of Baltimore to remain civil and not resort to violence. People have spoken up to condemn or condone the violence when it's not our place to do either. It's our place to acknowledge the pain of these people. More importantly, we must acknowledge the roots and causes of the pain, and do whatever we can to heal these communities and eradicate the prevailing injustices. Cities like Baltimore, Chicago, and Ferguson do not exist in a vacuum. They are only a symptom of an ongoing issue of abandoned communities in dire need of attention. Cities around the nation, poor and neglected, parallel the conditions of Baltimore which brewed for generations before these explosive results.