mourning to morning:

on grief, softness, and Black male aliveness

Hello gentle-people,

About ~4 years ago, I began the journey of affirming myself as a “soft Black woman.” I was writing affirmations, starting with the line, “Dear Soft Black Woman.” It was beautiful to see so many women and femmes respond to those affirmations, saying, “I see myself in this.”

Then I connected with Robert on Twitter, who was talking about softness and Black masculinity and we became friends. Something about his work stood out to me, not as a counter-vision to mine—our visions for softness as an expression of Black aliveness are the same. I think that is more true today then it was years ago. There are questions I ask now in my work that are informed by things I now consider because of our conversations.

We arrived at different intersections, but share many similar interests. So, I am so happy to be in a season of doing some great collaborative work with him. I have already given him his flowers in a podcast episode we did called “Robert’s Crown of Hybrid Flowers.” But I did not mention how big an influence and supporter he is of my work here on A Gentle Landing. At least one-third of my subscribers overlap with his and a lot of them come from his recommendations.

I highly recommend listening to our conversation about his work as a companion to this post. You can check it out here on Apple Podcasts or here on Spotify (or search for “Black Coffee & Theology on any streaming platform you use).

“This grief, for all its awful weight, insists that he matters,” —Jesmyn Ward, Men We Reaped

From Mourning… (Rose)

“…and I come from a line
of black and going on women
who got used to making it through murdered sons
and who grief kept on pushing”

Lucille Clifton, “for deLawd”

“Where do you see Black men in the gentle landing you are dreaming?”

When Robert first asked me this question, I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t spend much time thinking about it, as someone who has struggled in relationships with Black men and has experienced feeling (and being) betrayed by them. In many ways, solidarity with Black men and boys largely came to me through protest over their deaths. I would even look at the men and boys in my family and fear for them often. The youngest, who I repeatedly told not to grow up, disobeyed me. He is now in his first year of high school and is taller than me. I know the fears that come with that height.

I read Jesmyn Ward’s book, Men We Reaped, a few years ago. Ward chronicles the stories of 5 young men in her life who were taken too soon, often reflecting on the women they left behind who mourn them. Black women struggle to get the same visibility for their untimely deaths as Black men have in the public eye. A friend of Claudia Rankine, said “The condition of Black life is one of mourning,”¹and the that mourning is often depicted in the image of the women (particularly mothers ) who are left behind.

So often, when I think about Black men being vulnerable, this is where I begin: with the racism (in its various manifestations that come for all of us. I think of the target that is on my brothers’ backs, the one that looks a little different than mine. Black women, as Lucille Clifton says, find a way to be “Black and going on women.”

We get used to Black men dying early and gruesomely.

But I want my brothers alive.

All my brothers alive.

I want to see them live long and beautiful lives.

I think about the fact that Black men often don’t get their flowers until they are dead. I know some who would even be embarrassed to claim flowers at all, fearing what it says about their masculinity. When I settled on the image of a flower crown, I was thinking about the many times I saw drawings of murdered Black men with flowers drawn around them.

I bring that image into the gentle landing dreams I envision now, as I make these flower crowns for my brothers. I know many of them will be too embarrassed to wear them, still. But I hope they know these crowns are created to be worn while they are alive.

The journey to embracing softness for them looks different than mine…but I am working on looking beyond the eyes of mourning and toward the Black aliveness we all share.

an affirmation for the soft black man by Rose J. Percy

Smile and let the joy leak out from the sides of your eyes
There is light enough here for you to be seen, held and loved
Here — is a place made with you in mind, 
With you to be reminded
That softness was always yours to claim 

Cry and let the grief leak out from the sides of your eyes
There is darkness enough here for you to rest and be relieved that
You will not be left behind 

Laugh and let the fight go
Laugh and let the love grow
Laugh and let the world know 

The melodies of your hard-won song
The one your heart sings when you 
Remember you always belonged.

black man
you are beautiful
full stop
you are bold
not brazen but bronze
ever-manifesting
melanin-meets-majesty
purple-robed sun kisses
glistening beads
of perseverance
learning now
to rest your head
and sail
across the gentle breeze
only seeking
home

 by Benjamin Young

….To Morning (Robert)

the evolving morning

“Are you a morning or a night person?” (If I had a penny for how often I have been asked this question…)All jokes aside, that is a tricky question for me because I don’t know what I would naturally lean towards if my life were free from trauma and chaos. What would my body naturally desire if the weight of being Black, shy, poor, nerdy, and dysfunctional had never been a part of my story? I guess I will never know. Mornings aren’t one thing for me and have changed for me over time. I have always been attracted to the stillness of the mornings though. There was something that settled me in my troubled home, when I could wake up before everyone else and just sit. I didn’t read or pray. I just sat. And as I grew older, morning became a lifeline for me; a liminal space that I could go to where the world could not harm me and my harsh inner voice was silenced. I have always been a confused person; someone needing to reflect and turn things over in my mind to get clarity. I suppose the mornings have been a refuge for the confused and the questioning. 

and then grief came

Or rather I should say that grief came again. It has come for me many times. Visiting upon my mind and heart the devastating reality that grief is a spectrum, an oppressor, and a mark of those who have loved much. In the cool of the morning, I sat in those days as I did in my youth. In the initial wake of grief, many mornings would be marked by a shuddering breath and tears that seemed to endlessly flow. 

Morning and aliveness

1. Wake up

2. Giggle

3. Stretch

4. Tea

5. Read/Write/Meditate

My favorite part of my current morning routine is sitting down at the creative space that I have cultivated and turning on either piano melodies or nature sounds. My happy place. Candle lit. Mug of tea or coffee still warm, I write a few lines of poetry. I savor that time. I cannot control the rest of my day. But in my creative space I allow my mind to wander. On most days, I don’t have as much time as I would like to remain in this creative flow, but I cherish every single moment that I can. As I play around with a few ideas, I sometimes go to my favorite poets for inspiration; Lucille Clifton, Morgan Harper Nichols, Nikki Giovanni…really whoever is within arm’s reach. As I create, I give myself permission to breathe deep and to be. 

Morning by morning I commit myself to being alive. 

Is this resistance? Probably not.

I feel the ache of all of those Black men who have had their lives cut short by cruelty.

Those whom this world is not worthy of.

I cry for Elijah. 

Aliveness and tears are compatible.

Landing Tracks

🐦‍⬛ Today’s landing tracks were curated by Robert. As you venture to read this post below and enjoy the songs on his “rest for the weary” playlist, see what affirmations arise for you. What truths linger? And remember: “Aliveness and tears are compatible.”

creating pathways to rest

1. Check out the essay, “The Condition of Black Life is One of Mourning,” where Rankine unpacks the necessity of public grief and its agency for those who are left grieving and longing for justice.