THERE IS A HOUSE in a nice neighborhood in a good school district in a chocolate city devoid of soul. The black-hand-side kinda soul, I mean. Apparently, there is no room for such things in Atlanta, where old aunties’ houses are now fried, dyed, and fully gentrified by that new “new” Atlanta that wants its homes and schools and stores and neighborhoods lily. Damn our money. Damn our education. Damn our picture-perfect, picket-fence-ready family. Go on, git. Our kind is not wanted here. There is no rope. There is no tree. But it feels like a lynching nonetheless. Trying to keep that strongface, y’all. For the sake of my babies. For the sake of my sanity. But really, I’m feeling like a room without a roof. But not in a Pharrell “ ’cause I’m happy” kinda way. We just want a nice, safe place to lay our heads. A good school for the girl-pies. Some grass to play on and a grocery store stocked with healthy food. Does black skin really negate these things? In 2014, no less? Makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands. And put a clip in mama’s gun. Why can’t we ever just… be?
—JUNE 2015