Reveling in my own company, Audre and James came to mind. curious what it must have been to sit with self in coffee shops and tucked away corners on other continents, conjuring words that have shaped movements.

A few scattered thoughts later, what if this work was all towards imagination justice? the phrase “imagination justice” is still echoing. it feels big, bigger than me.

We’re fighting for the conditions needed for the global majority’s imagination to be safe enough and fed enough and cherished enough to bloom and prosper and build new worlds. And what if it isn’t only through our grief and anger that we open portals to our ancestors? What if it is through joy and pleasure and softness? In my indulgence, had I opened a portal to the black queer ancestors who steadied this journey? Tapping into those unapologetically leading the charge toward the black queer imagination and the abundance it brings?

This is simply a fact. But today, Black Queer kids aren’t safe and when their lives are taken, there’s silence.

#MikaylaMiller and #DonnellRochester and so many other young Black Queer folx should still be here. Their lives mattered and I refuse to accept that queerness is where we draw the line at fiercely, unapologetically protecting Black lives.

Sitting in the back of my throat is a tangle of anger and heartache and a sure commitment to our Black Queer youth. I will show up for you. I will say your name. I will challenge the systems that failed you. I will carve space for your abundant futures. I will not let us be erased.

This illustration has been a way to wade through and sit with these feelings, much of which i’m still at a loss for words to share.

In this season of ancestral exploration, I asked my mother if we had any treasured family recipes. She told me that she’s always just played it by ear, confirming what I already knew from a childhood staring at an impossible fridge only to see my mother whip up an eclectic and worldly meal for dinner. Unsatisfied with her answer, I called my grandma in the hopes that there’d be a secret golden recipe tucked away safely, a token of ancestral knowledge. Beaming with pride, my grandma told me her cakes were always a touch different, depending on what fruits and flavors were in the house. And then it dawned on me that my mother and her mother carry within them the craft of seeing beyond what is in front of them and making their own magic.

I am humbled and elevated and honored to be the daughter of this magic maker.

as little black girls set their eyes on new horizons, our ancestors are beaming.

this piece was such a joy to make. it brought up memories of the fall before i graduated from Hopkins when my grandma came to visit. she is the kind of woman who’s poise proceeds her, dressed to the nines with a smile that’d light up broadway. as she glided through campus, young men eagerly opened doors for her like royalty. we found a cozy spot in the big windows of a cafe on campus and she told me about her life when she was my age. in that moment i felt the weight of what it meant to be there, to bring my ancestors with me in pursuit of big ideas.

with this piece, i got to imagine what new horizons i’ll see in my later years because of those who come after me. what a beautiful cycle when little black girls dream.