Sweeter

Jalen was born on the day that our Haitian ancestors declared independence. That day  shifted the reality of the black diaspora—that day changed my life. I thought about  the things I would teach him, how strong and how conscious he would be. I would  raise him supernaturally so that the perils of this world would not harm him. He  would be a greater version of me set to take the world by storm. 

As I held him, a purple ball of wrinkles, the insidious feeling of angst crept into my  spine. The ancestor Tupac spoke to me from beyond, "My only fear of death is  reincarnation." I chased the thought away. His life would be different. His would not  have to live a bittersweet existence. His life would be... 

Birthing a child had made Erica more beautiful, more powerful. She attracted me  beyond what I had become accustomed to. I looked at her and saw myself, I saw  everything that I had never seen. We marveled at the wonder that our creator had  

given us. Jalen was the center of our universe but there had also been born a thing left  unspoken. We avoided it like a dark chasm on the surface of our reality. We dared not  speak it, we dared not give it life to manifest. Nevertheless, as Jalen grew into his dark  body the chasm grew with him, an unspoken affirmation of fragile ground. Erica's  

hand found mine and squeezed. 

Sixteen months later Ebony was born. A girl. A Black girl. She became my kiss. Jalen  had, by then, found his way to his feet and with every step gained experience and  personality. One day he sat in a chair adjacent our bed, he was a tiny railroad  conductor in blue overalls and a red shirt. His eyes trained on Ebony, curious about  the brown life that had breached his only-childness. I held Ebony as if to place her in  his arms. He adjusted his posture to receive the gift. He looked at her and I wondered  what he saw. There was silence between them. Black boy. Black girl.

He kissed her  knowing that she was... 

Two Black babies. How was I to guard against their depreciation in the market of  humanity? They would suffer what I had suffered, a unique lonesomeness that was  not one of a kind. Names, and absolute consensus that their beauty was tainted  because of their darkness. 

How would I prepare them to defend themselves from an onslaught of imagery,  conditioning and norms that sought to use them as punching bags, footstools, and  target practice? The pervasiveness of racism had interrupted happiness arrested joy  and shackled it to a a vivid past. 

Racism is a dark and viscid substance that adheres to  blackness, suffocating as it solidifies. 

You have to fight it before it becomes you, before you forget who you are or never  know, before it enslaves. 

I would never tell them that the world would try to convince them that their beautiful  Black gifts were curses. Curses of Ham, Sam and Ram. They would have to know  these histories, they would have to know all histories to see past distorted images of  Blackness.

They were born, not simply to live but to fight. Their existence is an act of  defiance, their being Black an act of revolution—that is their birthright. They are  reminders of what was and to what we must return. They will bear the burden of pain  known by our people. They will share in the glory triumph. They will be opposed and  aided, loved and hated. The world will seem lonely. The world will seem scary. 

The world is scary. 

"Bae?" Erica called out to me. 

"Yeah?" I answered. 

"Isn't this the sweetest chocolate you've ever seen?"