When Black Girl Musings is running like a well oiled machine, new musings drop on Monday mornings.

It is currently Monday morning and there are 28 words on my screen.

Clearly, not a well oiled machine this week. I sat with the topic all weekend, hashed it over in my mind. Talked it through with my husband, lamented more with my mom.

But nothing.

Not for lack of ideas.
But lack of courage.

The fear is a familiar one. It is the kind of fear many people of color face, that speaking the truth, sharing our honest lived experiences will somehow be thrown back in our faces. The fear that truth will be seen through a lens of fragility that distorts honesty into hate.

So I either say nothing or play mental gymnastics followed by a rigorous emotional triathlon of sorts to make sure the wording is palatable, the ideas are harmonious and the tone is just right.

But at the end of the day, truth is truth. Not the “my truth” and “your truth” kind of truth. Just regular ol’ truth. And I won’t strategize and tone police myself to say what’s true.

Those who it’s meant for will hear it.
I’ve already done enough ground laying and prefacing for this post.

So let’s just jump into the why.

Girl, what happened?

Since being pregnant, the Amazon man has delivered more packages to my door than ever before, but not because of me. Colleagues, acquaintances, and friends have sent Baby KJ and me all kinds of stuff.

My favorites, besides the three pregnancy pillows and the noise machine, have been the books. If you’ve been here for any length of time, this shouldn’t surprise you.

Baby KJ still has 5.5 more months in utero and already has close to 30 books. I’ve bought, none of them. I know, it surprises me too.

Most of these books have come from Black families and friends. People who know Shamar is an artist and wants Baby KJ to know about she can be an artist. Or that we love books and wants Baby KJ to have books about children going to the library.

They want Baby KJ to know how beautiful their hair and skin and toes are. And also they want Baby KJ to go to sleep (amen, we all stand in agreement with that). They want our child to know they are known and seen and loved.

And the majority of the white people who sent books, want Baby KJ to know what racism is and how to navigate it.

This did not sit well. So here we are.

Do you know who I am?

I need help with a lot of things. Namely, how to keep a tiny human alive. But as a Black woman who has walked this Earth for longer than a moment, I do not need help explaining what racism is to my child.

But it did make me wonder how well meaning white people see me and Baby KJ and all people of color.

Are they aware of my genius?
Do people believe I am the sum total of both my beautiful and painful experiences?
Is my art and my love and my need for dance parties as visible as their perceived need to arm me with resources to navigate the harm they cause?
Do they know I need write like I need to breathe?

Or do they only see me through the filtered lens of oppression?

I ask because many–not all—but many, white people, none of whom were asked to do so, sent me books that centered my child’s future squarely in the realm of the harm caused by white supremacy and believed that they were the authority on the resources I would need to help navigate that.

And they did it with the very best of intentions.

These folks didn’t think about the far away places Baby KJ might travel to in her dreams. They didn’t think about sending me their child’s favorite bedtime story. No one thought that maybe, instead of navigating a suffocating system of oppression that Baby KJ might want to discover the planets or an art museum or meet royalty or aliens.

I wonder if they sent their white friends those books?

And I don’t just see it in the baby gifts I receive.

The messages people of color receive.

Teachers often refer to children as voiceless. As a result, they believe their work is to give them a voice. I sit with people who tell me things like “They don’t know” and “They can’t do,” and never tell me about the things their students are great at.

I get asked “What can I do for you?” by white people with tears in their eyes, instead of “What feeds your soul and brings you joy?” believing that my whole existence is one filled with pain. As if my life is something I need to be rescued from.

I don’t need rescuing. Students have voices and incredible knowledge. And my unborn child shouldn’t have to prioritize learning to cope with systems of harm they did not cause, when those systems could be dismantled by others learning how not to cause harm.

So what to do?

Learn about the genius and brilliance and righteousness and beauty of people of color.

Don’t let the only spaces where authors of color make the NYT Bestselling author list be when we’re talking about racism, oppression, and harm to POC bodies. Let the beauty of Tony, and Maya, and Sandra fill your soul.

Take a lyrical journey with Nikki Giovanni and be honored that her words grace your presence. Be enraptured by the magical realism of Isabel Allende.

Stop asking questions like people of color are in need of saving and have conversations with them instead.

Ask yourself who you are and what work must happen for you to be the best version of yourself. And don’t rely on people of color to do that work for you.

You practice finding the genius and beauty in yourself, so that you might find it in others.

And then, when programmed thoughts or beliefs come into your mind and they don’t match up with the goodness, creativity, beauty, and genius that you know to be true about yourself and people who don’t look like you…

You throw that shit away.

And keep filling.

There’s magic in our musings, genius, and understanding of others,
Nicole