When I think about the individual and communal traumas that Black people have faced for generations, it’s a weight so heavy that it pushes me through to the other side of the earth. My brain can’t even comprehend it. Naming it all would split my tongue in two. Naming it all would crack the entire world open and ooze yellow egg yolk magma into the universe. So I’ve learned, like my grandmother, and all of my grandmothers since the beginning of time, the art of re-

memory. It’s not ignoring hard truths but rather kneading our memories in a way that finds a lightness to keep living.