To those who know.
You know.
God.
Bless.
You.
And to Billie Holiday.
And to me.
And to my people.
…She would close the evening with the song; the waiters would stop service when she began; and the room would be in total darkness except for a spotlight on her face. There would be no encore…
Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees
-from the article, How ‘Strange Fruit’ Killed Billie Holiday by Brandon Weber
Now.
To those who honestly want to know, but don’t know what to do with all of the nuances.
Don’t ignore the weight of what is being said, just because you’ve heard it before.
An immigrant (Black, Brown, or otherwise) is not an American Black, though none are indigenous.
Love them.
A first or second-generation African in America is not an American Black.
But they are much closer.
Love them.
Mixed race children are STILL in danger due to racism in America.
And in some ways, it is harder for them.
Love them.
Things are different for the American Black.
Please, see it, before you claim to understand it, then make comments or assumptions.
Things.
Are.
Different.
Love them.
Love us.
Allow US to love us.
Love us all.
What does love look like, when you see more than just your side?
When it’s not written off?
What do you do with that?
What can you do to put that love into action?
No tropes.
No patronizing.
No half-stepping.
What does it look like?
Do you know?
Can you see?
Can you see Billie in me?
In 2020?