On tomorrow, I will be celebrating the heavenly birthday of my grandmother, Beatrice, affectionately known to her family as Mudear. There isn’t one day that goes by that I don’t think of her “figures of speech, quotes, words of wisdom, or just a matter of fact response to any kind of drama that is going on. I got my first lesson on community from living in her tiny apartment in the projects. Her place was filled with smells of fried chicken, grease popping and cabinets that displayed it, hair pressing, and the love that she had for her family.

I wrote the following poem ” My Blackness”, this past week, after dropping my car off for an oil change, and then waiting for my son to pick me up. I read the poem to my son, and he was surprised that I was able to write it so fast. His response, “Hmmm, I’m surprised that you didn’t need to have the perfect writing conditions present”. My response: “Yes, I know. Totally a God thing.” Me standing there on the sidewalk typing a poem into the Notes app on my phone? I then explained to him that I had read a blog post by a black blogger on the Black Lives Matter topic, particulary Juneteenth, and was immediately inspired to write poetry that helped to express my feelings about everything. Feelings about why we judge, what we judge, and what we think when we just don’t understand.

Well, here goes. Mudear, this is dedicated to you:

My Blackness

Is it the sassy in my voice?

Is the hips I’m given by choice?

Is it the knots that’s in my hair?

That makes the crowds shake heads and stare?

Is it my eyes that’s filled with grief?

Above the teeth that’s clenched by thief?

Is it the music that makes me sway?

That helps me heal from day to day.

Is it the movies that recall drama

Of taken lives and baby mommas?

It’s part of blackness.

Oh, can’t you see?

My Godly image, “identity”.

Have a blessed Sunday!