For Black Kids

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mariah j. bell 2018 Women’s (Text)iles Myisha Priest “for black kids”

B is for Brianna I used to think I didn’t understand what it means to be black. I always felt that the answer was somewhere just beyond my reach, close enough to notice but too far to touch.

I would reach out and try to grab it. I longed to have it in my hands, to turn it around and upside-down, look at it from all angles. I wanted to possess what can’t be held and see what only exists as sensation. I was confused and impatient and fearful.

I understand now that blackness is that longing, that confusion, that impatience, that fear. The struggle is the point, it’s the question and the answer, and it’s worth it, I promise. Just hold on.

L is for Lamar Sometimes when I love him, it hurts so much that I wish I didn’t.

I want to hold him in my arms, I want to yell at him, I want to tell him it’s all going to be alright, I want to tell him it’ll never be alright. I want him to know the things I feel but can’t explain.

I wonder: What does it mean to be a sister or a brother?

What does it mean to be a sista or a brotha? What does it mean to love a black boy who is 50% your mother, 50% your father, and 100% you?

I don’t know what it means, but I do know that it’s worth it, I promise. Just hold on.

A is for Aiesha My mom used to own a hair salon for black children.

She would braid, and flat iron, and twist and create beauty and life and joy with just her bare hands. She could take the most insecure child, the most outspoken, the silliest, and show them that it’s okay to work with what we got.

She listened to them when no one else would, she talked to them when no one else would, she catered to them when no one else would.

She was a mother, a sister, an auntie, a friend, a teacher.

And we learned so much from her, those children and I; they learned how to love themselves, and I learned what it means to love others. Now I know that it’s worth it, I promise. Just hold on.

C is for Chris He knows what it means to be a black man, or at least what it means to him. He’s doing what he can, I know, but it’s hard sometimes - most times.

He lives and he loves like a boulder, like concrete, like chains, so strong and uncompromising, but, for all his love, he doesn’t understand the value of vulnerability.

He was a lonely black boy, a troubled black teen, a gangster, a player, a prisoner, my father. He’s lived many lives, but throughout it all, he’s always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the horrible, beautiful, scary, joyful, inevitable truths of black manhood to catch up to him. I watch him and I see how difficult it is, but I also see that it’s worth it, I promise. Just hold on.

K is for Kiara I once heard a story about a black girl who could do magic.

She was amazing, conjuring spells, protecting her people. But she was too much a legend, more myth than woman, and certainly nothing like any girl I ever saw in the mirror.

I loved her anyway. Sometimes I worshipped her. Sometimes I still do. But I don’t know her well enough to tell her story, so I won’t. It wouldn’t be fair, not to her and not to you.

I’ll tell you my own story instead. And I hope that one day, you’ll take the time to tell your own.

It’s worth it, I promise. Just hold on.

this was for Brianna Lamar Aiesha Chris Kiara kids

SOURCES “L is for Lamar” illustration by Eric Gurney from

Perkins, Al, (1969) Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb, New York, NY: Random House, Inc. “A is for Aiesha” illustration by Dr. Seuss from

Dr. Suess, (1988) One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, New York, NY: Random House, Inc. “K is for Kiara” illustration by P.D. Eastman from

Eastman, Philip D., (1961) Go, Dog. Go!, New York, NY: Random House, Inc. “this was for black kids” illustration by P.D. Eastman from

Eastman, Philip D., (1960) Are You My Mother?, New York, NY: Random House, Inc.

brianna lamar aiesha chris kiara mariah