Illustration by Natalie Johnson.

I AM AN ALLY IN PROGRESS

An Excerpt from The Black Love Letters Project

Black Love Matters because Black Lives Matter

When the country mourns the killing of yet another unarmed Black person at the hands of the police, what do they really know of Black people? They know the sight of our death, but do they know us in all of our dimensions? Do they see us in all of our contours, as full human beings?

The letters of this project stretch across generations, lifespans, as well as the political realities of gender, sexuality, and yes, race.

Black Love Matters because Black Lives Matter.

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word ‘love’ here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace—not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.” —James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

Love is as love does

By Natalie Johnson

Dear Aunt Marge,

I can’t braid my hair like you always could. The dexterity and patience needed never came naturally to me. Sho-Sho used to cry in defeat at the bird’s nest that was my summer hair. But you didn’t mind. You would gently dip my head in warm water like a religionless baptism, and patiently work away at the knots that subsumed my little head. You were tender and giving with everyone but yourself.

We spent many of those hot August evenings with my head resting in your lap, while you twisted and wove away well past midnight. You had those strong Johnson women arms and you could handle it, you assured me. It was in those late hours I realized you were the brightest person I knew. You brought me into the fold of Black feminist thinkers: Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, and your namesake, Miss Marguerite Johnson, who the world knew as Maya Angelou. Together we probed life’s biggest questions: why are we here? And, what does it mean to live a meaningful life?

And when I have
my daughter or my niece resting on my lap, I will tell them who Marguerite Johnson was.
Love is as love does.

I wish you chose to live your life. I wish that you would have embraced even the most broken bits so that you might still be here. I wish I could have ended those poison-bombed marriages before they began. I wish we had more car rides through Birmingham listening to The Diary of Alicia Keys on repeat. I wish I could have held you long enough to take the sadness away. I believed addiction made you stop loving us. I wish I understood then that addiction would cloud it, but it could never wreck love in its entirety.

I found your locket after the funeral. I nearly fell apart when I saw whose two little heart-shaped photographs rested inside. You showed me and my brother that love is as love does. Love is never passive. We can choose it even in our most painful hour. So, because you couldn’t love your broken bits, I will love them for you. I will love them with the same force that loves the sound of your voice and kindness of your heart. And when I have my daughter or my niece resting in my lap, I will tell them who Marguerite Johnson was. Love is as love does.

Your niece,
Natalie Marguerite Johnson

Dad & Pops

By VJ Jenkins

It started innocently between us.

It started innocently between us. Laughing all night as we compared ass whooping stories. Remember the flag football games and bonfires, or the time you fell out of the tree playing flashlight tag?! God, we laughed! Or the early Sunday texts to make sure you were coming to church, because what was church if we couldn’t laugh together at folks catching the Holy Ghost. We laughed big laughs.

I remember when we walked the streets of Paris as teenagers, smoking by the river. You were so excited to show me how much cooler than me you’d become. I obliged you. And, that night, something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen between boys, especially Black boys. Now, we had a secret hidden from the world, together.

And maybe that’s what makes this love letter foolish. This story has been written. But, I didn’t know it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t on the TV, then. I thought we were supposed to hide it, and hate it. But, that thing that happened in Paris happened again. So, I started to imagine our one day. You were going to be Pops, and I was going to be Dad. And it was going to be beautiful—eventually.

I wanted to embrace our Black love.

But we continued to practice our performance art of talking to women. We hid love well under the sheets: door shut and lights off. But that’s the cruelty of loving you. It’s always been hidden. Even now I can’t use your name.

I caressed your hand as we walked the aisle of the grocery store, hoping you’d return a playful smile, but was scolded with a brisk, “what the fuck!”

Every time I tried to emerge into myself, I got thrust backwards. Because my understanding of me was tied to you. We were boys hurting. All I wanted was to reach out to you and say, I am here, take my hand. I wanted to embrace our Black love.

But, then you called. With that news that crushed the entirety of me. She was pregnant. You were getting married. And he came into the world, a beautiful child. I was an “uncle,” now. To the boy that came into this world and crushed mine…and I had to find love for him, because he was your baby boy.

And even still, I want you. I want to grow old with you, laughing about the time we’ve wasted apart—like in our favorite movie, LIFE. I want us to re-write Giovanni’s curse. If you ever reach out your hand in love, I’ll grab it. Forever ever. And I’ll be Dad. And you’ll be Pops. And our kids will see love between us, and for us. Because the world is changing. And our love letter doesn’t have to end with “only if we lived in a different time.” But I don’t think you can love the part of me that loves you. The part that is willing to say I am gay.

It’s no longer a cancer I want to cut out. It no longer seems antithetical to my Black masculinity. It is beautiful to be Black, to be man, and to be gay. I don’t know if this is a love letter to you or to me. But, ours was a love story that ended with me smiling, because I love the part of me that you ignited.

The Ways you are

By Catherine Kelly

Estifanos,

I love you, and I love all of the The Ways you are.

I love the way you carry Eritrea with you—the way your necklace keeps your heart close to the home your family left but never leaves. I love the way your shoulders dance when Eritrean music plays, the way you laugh as you encourage mine to move in time. I love the shirt you wear, your favorite shirt, that celebrates Eritrean Martyr's Day: June 20th. I love the way you love your brothers, the way you are vulnerable for them, to them, with them. I love the way you love, the way you honor the uncles you couldn't meet, the aunts you didn't see. I love the way you respect your mothers, the way you care for them with patience and understanding. I love the way you speak about your fathers, the way you work to make them proud. I love the way you live your name, Estifanos, for the grandfather who shared it with you, for the grandfather who you should have known but could only love. I love the way you hold your legacy, your history as you move throughout the world.

I love the way you forge ahead, the way you build on what your parents started. I love the way you view your work—to help someone shine brighter. I love to think about you at the operating table, with a prefix and a plethora of degrees attached to your name: Doctor. I love the way you focus. I love the way you study. I love the way you excel—constantly. I love the way you stay steadfast and unshakeable in the promise of your greatness.

I love the way your mind works, the insatiable curiosities.

I love the way your mind works, the insatiable curiosities. I love the way you read, and I love the way you watch. I love the way you love to learn. I love the way you say: I read it in an article. I love the way you laugh—the big laughs and the reluctant ones. I love the way you make up accents and all the voices that you do. I love the way you make funny sounds; I love that they could only come from you. I love the way you love to cook. I love the way you love your friends. I love the way you love to play soccer. I love the way you exhibit graciousness and patience. I love the way you love your Spotify playlists. I love the way you forgive. I love the way you love The Ringer. I love the way you encourage and support growth. I love the way your widow’s peak makes your face into a heart. I love the way you challenge everyone around you to be a better person.

I love that I get to love you, and all The Ways you are. I love you, Esti.

Love is Attention

By Ankita Bhanot

You said that I never tried to see you.

My dear Kimani,

For two years, I have loved you with more deepness and ferocity than I even knew my heart was capable of. I love and cherish every moment that I got to experience you.

Yet, in the two years we shared together, you said that I never tried to understand you. In all my years, that has been my biggest regret. Despite how completely and unconditionally I cared for you, I did not make you feel my love. You said that I never tried to see you.

I hope that you can see that I see you, that I truly see you for who you are. I don't just see you for the white, ripped jeans you love to wear, the music you love to play in your living room, or the black, green and yellow beaded necklace I got you from Jamaica that you never take off from around your neck. I don't just love you as the man I met in my favorite neighborhood in Harlem, nor do I love you as just a simple part of my college years in New York.

I love you for your unforgivingly open and kind heart. I love your quiet and thoughtful mind. I love you for the incredible father you are to your two daughters. I love you for the pain I see behind your eyes when you start to talk about your mother and father. I love you for the way you love your home, the way your eyes light up when you tell me stories of growing up in the hot, tropical forests. I love you for the way you laugh, loudly and freely, when you're with your cousins and friends.

I love you so much, and I took you for granted.

I love that no matter the physical or emotional pain you've endured, or the amount of people you've loved that you've lost — you never lose hope. I love you for serving others through your cooking; the passion and heart you put into every Caribbean meal you make. I love how overly conscientious you are about keeping a clean apartment. I love how you smile when we watch old comedies. When we were together and used to walk around New York, I loved how you would put your arms around me and pull me up to your fast pace, almost running as if we were racing back to our apartment on West 141st Street. I love you so much, and I took you for granted.

Love is attention, and I'm sorry if you ever felt like you didn't have mine. I will spend the rest of my life and future relationships making sure that my partners feel seen and heard. You gave me that lesson. You changed me forever.

Kimani, a part of me will always love a part of you. You are the most beautiful person I have ever known. You deserve to be celebrated and seen every day.

ABOUT THE CREATOR

My name is Natalie and I'm 24 years-old from Brooklyn, NY. I'm a producer for MSNBC and newsletter producer for The.Ink. Politics are my professional world, and I turn to illustration for refuge. I love to explore intimate relationships between people of color, and the self-determination we reserve for ourselves, in my work. Anti-racism work I take root in comes from James Baldwin's words in The Fire Next Time: "Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word ‘love’ here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace - not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.” Anti-racism work is deconstructing the masks we, as a country, fear we cannot live without. I AM working for a tidal wave of change.

View the full Black Love Letters Project here.

ABOUT THE WRITERS

Ankita Bhanot is a writer based in Brooklyn. Originally from California, she connects to people and the outer world through storytelling. She recently celebrated her five-year anniversary as a New Yorker and enjoys long walks through the city, listening to R&B music and cooking for friends. On any given Sunday, you can find her either running, reading, or making friends with strangers in Prospect Park.

VJ Jenkins is a civil rights lawyer, activist, and poet seeking justice and hoping to add his story to the world’s chorus.