The Cost of Being Brave

Nobody ever tells little Black girls the cost we pay for being brave. Our voices shake rooms and call ancestors from broken places, but nobody ever tells us the toll we pay for being brave. Our backs break under the weight of commmunities, big and small, but nobody ever tells us the tax we pay for being brave.

Instead, they lead us to chaotic waters. Bend our necks and tilt our heads to drink the kool-aid. We serve as test subjects for the anger they cannot let loose.

Instead, they push us to the forefront. They linger behind closed doors and half drawn curtains and wait to see how far we get. Then they come full force and beat us back into our troubled corners while they claim victory.

We pay their price in bloodlines. Generational trauma and poverty strip away our imaginations. The rest is left to our own minds to toil over…and over…and over. Nobody tells little Black girls that their sadness is not theirs alone to carry.

Nobody tells little Black girls the price their mothers paid for being brave. All we see left is the scar. One on her right knee and another on her wrist. Nobody tells little Black girls the price their sisters paid for being brave. All we see is her shadow.

Nobody tells little Black girls how to sing her own song in her poetry. We learn that in our bedrooms with the doors closed as we cradle pen and paper.

We learn the harshest truths when nobody is around to save us.