We as Black people are born from craftsmen and craftswomen. From artists that produce not only for splendor, but for survival. In earlier times, our newborn bodies were not caught between degreed and professionally practiced hands, but by those that made magic. The owners of these hands—weavers of baskets, farmers of land, bakers of bread, and threaders of tiny needles.

In the internet age, there are memes and other internet postings that exist to confirm that all Black folks are indeed rooted

As the digital ink begins to fade on think pieces written both in criticism and in celebration of millennials, we find that in its wake even more stories emerge. They are the stories of a more empowered, more persistent, take no prisoners generation of kid sisters and brothers that came to do anything but play around.

While you may know certain Gen Y standouts like Yara Shahidi, Zendaya, and Amandla Stenberg- young women that showcase their activism as an equal counterpart to their art- you may

If we’ve learned anything during the great COVID crisis of 2020, it's how to market online with an amazingly vague message. Midway through the month of March as we collectively began to crane our necks towards news of the virus spread, companies and their marketing managers felt compelled to reach out to their patrons and supporters to let them know that despite these “unprecedented times” we are living in, that they would each be here for us. They pledged to continue working hard to ensure our

After having one margarita too many — it was one, I had one margarita — I scroll obsessively through my social media feeds, as I often do after a brief binge. It’s the fifth of May, and even if you speak no Spanish at all, you know that this calendar date is celebrated internationally as Cinco de Mayo.

Had I forgotten between tequila sips, the holiday hashtag would have promptly aided me in my recollection. There’s a parade of sombreros down my timeline — sombreros on babies, the elderly and co

I am crying in line at the Krispy Kreme drive thru of Cotswold. I have been crying all morning. The line is inching forward every few minutes as it does on Sundays, most especially after the emblazoned "Hot Now" sign flashes its neon lettering into the blueness of the fall sky. It is this sign that lures me down Sharon Amity Rd. I am not hungry but the anticipated taste of two hot original glazed donuts melting themselves into my mouth until there's nothing left but sugar crystals is reason enough for the trip. Just minutes before, as I sat waiting for the light to change at Sharon Amity and Randolph, I think to stop at the Shell station on my right to see if they have the morning paper available. I decided instead that I'm in no mood as of yet to interact with anyone face to face so I pull into a gas stall and sit.

n an uptown coffee shop, I am covered by a chill reminiscent of early morning Venice Beach air. With no jacket to warm me, I hold both hands against my latte, lift the ceramic to my lips, softly shut my eyes and indulge in its taste. As my lashes flutter against the highest points of my cheeks, the coffee tastes sweeter, and the speakers sing louder. Here in a space where your cappuccino is more than often accompanied by the best of nineties alternative rock, it seems on this day, the shop had decided on a different musical lineup.

On the eve of July 19th in the good year 2018, I stood in the bathroom of my partner’s 3rd-floor corner apartment on the brink of a breakdown. My hands were cramped, my face was damp, and I had ravaged a restroom that didn’t even belong to me.

There was neon coral nail polish staining the counter from a spill, discarded pieces from rejected outfit selections piled high on the seat of the toilet, and packs upon packs of synthetic Marley braiding hair strewn about the entirety of the small space.