God Knew to Make Me A Black Woman

The ancestors have been working me. Stirring emotions, feelings, memories within me. And calling my attention to their presence in a way that I can’t ignore.

It starts with swaying. I notice it in my shoulders and arms when I’m baking in the kitchen or when I’m sitting at my desk on my laptop. The swaying turns into tapping my fingers and feet. And humming songs. Some I know, some my ancestors try to teach me as I stumble on the words. Trying to catch the rhythm. It culminates in poetry, written in the words they taught me.

It’s the opposite of an out-of-body experience because my body is awakened. Like a house that is aglow with light and laughter. The door is open, and folks just pile into the house. Singing, dancing, remembering old times. Just like a family reunion.

There’s a sense of comfort in their presence. An ever-present presence that grounds me at my core. Reminds me who I am. And whose I am.

Ancestral joy is palpable. Tangible even. I feel it most days in my fingertips as I touch my hair. Black hair has so much history. Of hardship. Felt in the snap of the comb. Of labor. Felt in the soreness of my arms. Of love. Felt in the twisting of each strand. All rooted in memories and stories of my family.

The older I get, the more in tune with my body I become. The more my ancestors call for me to sit in their presence. God knew to make me a Black woman—to carry the heritage of my ancestors. God knew to make me a poet —to keep their stories alive.