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Kindle Notes & Highlights
I don’t know what’s worse. Being mistreated because of the color of your skin, your size, or having to prove that it really happened.
Makes me feel like no matter how dressed up we are, no matter how respectful we are, some people will only see what they want to see.
The melody is like an intricate collage. If you take it on all at once, you hear one song, one whole sound. But if you listen for the viola and cello, the flute and clarinet, you hear how each note lies next to the other to complete an image, how the French horn and tuba complements them all. How the piano and xylophone, the cymbals and drums hold them up like a base color. How the picture wouldn’t be the same without each note in its just-right place.
We sit there, not talking, just listening to each other’s breath. Just thankful.
Sometimes I just want to be comfortable in this skin, this body. Want to cock my head back and laugh loud and free, all my teeth showing, and not be told I’m too rowdy, too ghetto. Sometimes I just want to go to school, wearing my hair big like cumulous clouds without getting any special attention, without having to explain why it looks different from the day before. Why it might look different tomorrow. Sometimes I just want to let my tongue speak the way it pleases, let it be untamed and not bound by rules. Want to talk without watchful ears listening to judge me. At school I turn on a
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soledad loneliness
“But I think it’s ridiculous that you think I could only be getting dressed up for a guy.” “Well, you look beautiful, whoever it’s for.” I think for a moment and then tell him, “It’s for me.”
When something is funny, we laugh loud and long even if that means we’re the only ones laughing. When something is sad, we don’t hide our tears from each other. When we misunderstand each other, we listen again. And again.
Our bodies, our own. Every smile a protest. Each laugh a miracle. Our bodies rising. Our feet marching, legs dancing, our bellies birthing, hands raising, our hearts healing, voices speaking up. Our bodies so Black, so beautiful. Here, still. Rising.
libertad freedom
