Sunrise, Moonlight, and all that is Beautiful about our Black Babies.
Wrinkled, raw, and divine — this is what I thought of them when first introduced. Soon after, a second thought opened to me; the sunrise, the moonlight, and all that is beautiful about our babies.
Being a Black mother brings a joy that is no different from that which is known to mothers of any other race in my book; hope becomes an instinct that we all cling to dearly. I imagine the beauty is no less significant for men, but I can’t speak to that; I am a woman. It is what happens to our babies after they’re born that worries me.
When a woman chooses to keep her child, she lives through the tides of pregnancy in hopes of embracing a healthy infant at her voyage’s end. Like any other, they enter this world, cooing and cuddly when fed, and fussy when hungry, wet, or sick; a reality that spans all races and creed. However, for Black mothers, this temporal Eden is fleeting, for you know their angelic halo will soon be a target in the world-at-large. Soon, even the most mundane actions will threaten the safety of your child; no mother will know despair until they’ve lived this terror. Those moments of worry compounded by fear of the effects of every step they take outside your home are definitely when our world’s dismal trajectory stares you boldly in the face.
Since my babies could talk, I’ve made it my duty to tell them that they are worthy, beautiful, and Black; they can be and do anything. Why? Simply because the world tells them differently. Every day I am amazed at how, even in spaces that disparage them, they continue to breathe in our suffocating world. They move solidly and with long-nurtured confidence. Our babies achieve, despite the reality of constantly shifting goalposts. They adapt because resilience is their daily creed. I wonder how they persist with very minimal representations of themselves in spaces we’ve deemed “successful.” They’ve learned to look within themselves, seeking motivation and purpose at their sides, I guess. When they can’t look up, they look left and right. Now more than ever, young Black people are becoming aware of each other. Understanding that success does not lie in rising as an individual, but in the power of the collective. I’ve seen it in these recent weeks. Black youth are organizing and mobilizing. They are unapologetically buying Black, reading Black, watching Black, simply asserting themselves as Black consumers who understand their power.
When I look into their eyes, I see frustration from the unfolding realities, but I also see hope and a fire that is deeply rooted in how we raised them. Where many would expect despair and relegation, Black youth have shown courage and a remarkable audacity to hope for better. Ah, but a certain gentleman taught us that. The beauty in resiliency is not as the dominant culture, or mainstream ideology would like you to believe; instead, it is in the resonance of positive self-worth. It is reliant on an inner energy that exudes self-assurance and conviction.
Our dinner table conversations have always been heartfelt, but they are now remarkably more purposeful and resolute on our advancement as a people. There is nothing more pleasing as a parent than watching your children firmly grasp on to an idea as their eyes gloriously twinkle, speaking myriad ways they can do better. Our babies are here to enforce a determining reality fueled by all they have learned. They are here to awaken society like the sunrise, from its complacent slumber, and to cast shadows like the moonlight showing the world that it can no longer feign ignorance.
