A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance

by Hanif Abdurraqib

I am called to remember all of this when I think of how my brother knocked and did not leave, knowing that I was sitting on the floor, holding the doorknob with a trembling hand and refusing to turn it. I am called to remember how, when I finally did turn it, there was my brother, who did not bother to ask whether or not I was doing all right. Who knew only that he couldn’t get hold of me in a week where things went bad, and I mean the kind of bad that feels insurmountable. And I remember, most of all, how my brother—larger than me in every way—held me while I cried in his arms and did not speak at all, not even to reassure me that things were going to be fine. Rather, in silence, to help me understand that things were not fine, but this was him, dragging me back from the brink. Holding me until the ledge became solid ground again.