I'm happy that I took my time coming to and sitting with this book. I needed the distance of time to have some perspective on the pandemic and coming back to this collection was a reminder of all we've lost and survived. How joy and pain sat vigil together. Or how as Deesha Philyaw says we "do what Black folks have always done: let a shout of celebration and a wail of sorrow live side by side in my throat."
For me this collection was a necessary reminder of all the grief we've held over these last handful of years and how we made it through, even if we didn't always make it through whole. Since its publication we've even lost its editor Valerie Boyd. What hurts is that since 2020 our country looked in the mirror at all that hurt, all that injustice, and decided to go deeper, uglier. I see in these essays a calling out of injustice, a hoping that all that loss would call us to be something different - better. In "Pandemics and Portals: Listening That Breaks Us Open" Daniel B. Coleman references Arundhati Roys writing about pandemics as portals - "gateways between worlds that have forced humans throughout history to break with the past." Pearl Cleage says "that is how we got through the horrible early days and weeks and months of the last epidemic I lived through. We stayed close. We made art. We made love. We celebrated every friendship, every glass of wine, every fleeting, irreplaceable, not-promised-to-you precious moment. We laughed a lot. And we loved each other. We loved each other fiercely. Just like now."
I wonder what these writers would say about where we are in 2024. How little of the lessons of the pandemic about closeness and interconnectedness stuck. After months and years of "Listening and learning" our country has walked back most efforts at equity, diversity, and inclusion, forgotten the horror of the Black death that triggered a movement in 2020, and in fact extended our commitment to murder on a global scale. I am keen to land where Kiese Laymon did in his essay "What We Owe and Are Owed." Because indeed "there was nothing new I could say to white Americans about their investments in Black suffering. It wasn't only that it had all been said, made, and written; it had all been said, made, and written by the greatest sayers, makers, and writers in history...I decided I'd rather write to us and for us...instead of explaining something that has already been explained and making a spectacle of Black death, I decided to write something that makes me feel good about a man from Winona, Mississippi who has loved me whole and halted my premature death." Ultimately this collection was a reminder that my investment is in Black thriving.
I was reintroduced me to some favorite writers - Jason Reynolds, Deesha Phillyaw, Pearl Cleage, and Kiese Laymon's essays in particular stuck out for me in the collection - while introducing me to some new to me writers including Rosalind Bentley, Latria Graham, and Imani e Wilson. Their passages were reminders of the depths of my sorrow, fears, joys, and triumphs during that time and this one. Though sometimes uneven - the collection was an overall powerful and emotional one. I wish there was a bit more thematic pacing and flow from essay to essay - the breadth of the essays captured the feeling of the pandemic well. Here are some of my favorite quotes from the collection:
"and maybe the hem of the garment is what human love is: flustered sometimes, yes, and flawed, but adjacent to the Divine, made by hands that will one day die, but took time out of their allotted years to make a meal that fills you with something that will keep you alive." - Destiny O. Birdsong
"I have come to treat my body like the food I prepare: perishable and precious." - Destiny O. Birdsong
"I remembered that I am neither a machine nor a slave and therefore do not have to live as such." - Daniel B. Coleman
"Poetry - our capacity to continue to search for the divine in the chaos" - Daniel B. Coleman
"Even when hope doesn't reside within me - those days happen, too - I know that it is safely in the hands of fellow Black adventurers to hold until I am ready to reclaim my share of it...you are not alone in doing this big, monumental thing. You deserve a life of adventure, of joy, of enlightenment...for every new place I visit, and the old ones I return to, my message to you is that you belong here too."- Latria Graham
"Multitudes are seeing their own freedom through you...you are not just the lens, you are the whole existence beyond it. Uncontainable as air." - Alexis Pauline Gumbs
"Families are their stories, both fact and lore. The utterings bind. They fill where the "official" record gapes...just as important as the stories we tell are the artifacts we pass down. They are reminders of storms weathered, of faith that landed me on this shore." - Rosalind Bentley
"We fill the air with our laughter and some tears
Almost forgetting that we work too much
and hurt too much
But holy fuck, this weather
Holy fuck, look at you
Beautiful & glistening, fully pulling air into your lungs,
down past your shoulder blades
fully resting on you rback.
This sky is perfect. This ocean is perfect.
This crystalline moment is perfect.
It is a Saturday."
- Samaa Abdurraqib
"music was the thing that held me together, a tight embrace. Whether vinyl spun in a lounge, banging on a car stereo or played and sung live in church, sound and movement made me whole, where glue stick, rubber cement, gum, and bakery box twine could not. Music is my extreme measure, all over me and keeping me alive...under its sway, I discover that I too am mutable, liable to be made over, overcome, to weep, take off running, brace my dancing self on a wall with my fingertips." - Imani e Wilson
"If spared, I swear
to savor sacred time
on my small patch
of borrowed earth," - Kamilah Aisha Moon