CHAPTER 1

BLACK GIRL MAGIC

Identity and Self-Love

I SEE YOU SPARKLING

In my book The Sisters Are Alright: Changing the Broken Narrative of Black Women in America, I wrote that there is nothing wrong with Black women (or girls). “We have facets like diamonds. The trouble is the people who refuse to see us sparkling.”¹

A woman named CaShawn Thompson put a name to the way Black girls shine. In 2013, she tweeted, “Black girls are magic. You can do anything.” That tweet became the hashtag #Black-GirlMagic. On blkhistoryuntold.com, CaShawn said, “I always thought that we were magic. I thought that maybe I wasn’t yet but look at Mommy and look at Grandma and look at Auntie. ‘I’ll grow older; I’ll be magic, too.’ But what I understood to be magic was fairytales, witches and people that could work spells and make things out of no things and make things happen that nobody else could, and that’s what I saw [in Black women].”²

Now you see the term “Black girl magic” everywhere. T-shirts. Books. Workshops. What you don’t see is CaShawn’s name. “I wasn’t the right kind of woman to be saying these things . . . I wasn’t the college grad . . . I didn’t have the money . . . I was older . . . when I did this I was poor, divorced, a single mother . . . A lot of it had to do with who thought I was worthy of the credit,” she told For Harriet, a website for Black women.³ Those fixed, negative ideas about us didn’t stop CaShawn’s genius, but they blocked her brilliance from public view.

You may know that feeling. Sometimes it seems like Black girls have to be perfect for people to love them. A little sister has to be born in the right zip code. She has to have the right sort of family. She has to look the right way—the right skin tone, right curves, contour in the right places. She has to be agreeable, no matter what she endures. She must never be tired or fed up or loud or angry or sad. She must like boys and only boys, but not like them too much. She must be ladylike. Innocent but grown up. She can’t just be human. She can’t just be worthy because of that. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you are a star when the world doesn’t reflect your light. But you are a star—a bright one.

In the letters that follow, Black women recognize your shine, and they tell you what to remember to stay gleaming and strong in your Black girlhood—how they keep the magic when folks challenge their beauty or smarts or who they love or their right to just be. Here are the spells, Black girl. Use your magic to make the haters disappear. Poof!

Sparkle on.

DEAR ONE,

Where is your light?

What is the one, shining thing that makes you yourself?

Is it the way you walk?

The way you talk?

Is it the way your lip curls when you smile?

Do you have a mole on your cheekbone?

Does your hair wind around a certain way when it’s wet?

Do you blush when you are embarrassed?

Is your skin tone hot butter browning in a pan or dark chocolate?

Are you loud and boisterous?

Are you reserved and shy?

Can you sit by yourself without getting lonely?

Are you most comfortable in a crowd?

Do you believe in justice?

Do you believe in God?

Does music make you soar?

I ask these things, because I urge you to know.

Know your light. Know where it resides.

That is the key to everything.

A dictionary defines light as the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible. When you begin to see your own light—that special thing that makes you like no other, guard it. Do not let anyone steal or dim your light.

There are times when you won’t feel so special, and your light won’t feel so bright; there are times when you don’t want to shine, and you will pray that no one notices you—you just want to fade into the beige background and hide your light from everyone, so they won’t see you.

I know this, because I have felt those things, too. There were times when I was feeling sorry for myself and my mother would say, “Stop crying. Wipe those tears.” And I would cry louder and longer, because I was angry at her for not joining me in feeling sorry for myself— joining my “pity party.”

Eleanor Roosevelt was a very wise First Lady. Her husband was President Franklin Roosevelt. She once said that “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

There will be times when it will seem like the world is conspiring against you in an effort to make you feel less-than. You are not skinny enough. Your hair isn’t straight enough or long enough. You don’t have the latest clothes or the best designer shoes. That one over there is smarter/prettier/skinnier/more popular than you.

Sometimes you want to react with anger at people who you think are “making” you feel a certain way. But remember what Mrs. Eleanor said: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

It’s on you. You are the only one in charge of your light. Remember that. No one can dim it without your permission. You have the igniter. And you must guard it with your whole being.

If you ever, ever think that extinguishing your light forever is the answer, seek help. Find a stronger light to help you keep yours going. You are one of many who light the world. Whether you think so or not, the planet will be diminished without you. And when others— mothers, mentors, aunties—help you keep your light going, pass it on. Help someone else. You will see yourself reflected in them.

I ask you to remember that your mother was once a girl. So was your grandmother, and her mother, and her mother before her. Those women each had their own light, just like you have your own. They each had their own igniter, and they each met some of the same challenges you are facing and will face in the future.

I can tell you they made many mistakes. They fear you will make the same ones. You probably will make mistakes. Wherever there is light, there is shadow.

These women hope you will learn from them just as they did (or didn’t) from other women, and that you will not repeat mistakes without learning the valuable lessons that follow; that you will use your own light to guide your way and will be a source of light for others.

A wise woman whose opinions I revere greatly, Marian Wright Edelman, once wrote a book in which she addressed her sons. “Sell the shadow for the substance,” she counseled them. “Don’t confuse style with meaning. Get your insides in order and your direction clear first and then worry about your clothes and your wheels.”⁴

Sell the shadow. Use your light to shine for justice.

There is a song that Civil Rights workers sang, “This Little Light of Mine.” Their clarion voices rang out in the face of terrible injustices and long odds. There are many things wrong in the world. When you see injustice, don’t turn your light inward.

Your light is your superpower. Hold it high for all to behold.

Let it shine.

Let it shine.

Let it shine.

With Love, your sister in light,

CELESTE

DEAR DOPE BLACK GIRL,

You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you, because I am you.

We are magic, light and stars in the universe! It might not seem like it sometimes because the world tells differently. They say we’re “too”— too loud, too quiet, too happy, too angry, too much everything.

Guess what? They’re kind of right. We’re too amazing for them to ever comprehend. But don’t let their fear stop you.

Know that you have millions of sisters behind you and next to you. And we love you exactly as you are.

Keep being magical, baby sis.

LUMINOUS

DEAR BROWN-SKINNED BLACK GIRL,

If no one else tells you this today, hear it from me: You and your dark chocolate shell, are beautifully and wonderfully made!

As a young girl, growing up with chocolate skin and 4c hair (the tightest of tight kinks and curls), I didn’t see anyone on television that looked like me. And if somehow a girl like me did make it to the screen, she was usually being made fun of. That made me feel like I was not beautiful. And I have spent the last 35 years trying to turn that feeling around. I am going to do my best right now to tell you the things I wish someone had told me back then.

Read this as often as you need to be okay.

They hate you because they ain’t you. Look around, love, people who don’t have what you have and don’t look how you look are paying big bucks to get what the Creator bestowed upon you for free. The next time you see a girl on IG, tanned to death, with lip fillers, butt implants and box braids, just remember: Yours is free and organic!

We are slowly—ever so slowly—moving toward a world that sees the beauty in you—in us. As I write this, Miss Universe, Miss America, Miss USA and Miss Teen USA are all beautiful vibrant Black women of varying hues and hair textures. They are a visual representation of all the ways Black girls can be and are physically beautiful.

In the meantime, know that the absence of dark-skinned girls in mainstream culture says more about the people making that culture than it says about you.

As a girl, I remember thinking, “What’s wrong with me?” I had a ton of answers and each one made me feel worse than the one before it. I don’t want that for you. Bump that!

Your melanin—that thing that controls how brown you are? It is an asset! People may give you crap about it. And you may not appreciate it now. But know this, honey, the saying “Black don’t crack” is real and melanin is the best anti-aging cream you could ever ask for.

Beautiful Black girl—If you let it, this world will take your soul and try to convince you that you handed it over willingly. It is my job, as a fellow Black girl, to stop that from happening.

I start by telling you that you are beautiful; the Creator makes no mistakes. But also know that in your beauty lies an ability to do and be anything you want. And if nothing else, know that this chocolate girl loves you.

CAROLYN

(P.S. Hit me up if you ever need to talk. My email is [email protected].)

DEAR BIRACIAL/MULTIRACIAL/MIXED GIRL,

You may be HALF-BLACK/ONE-QUARTER/ONE-EIGHTH/ONE-SIXTEENTH/SOME NEW MATHEMATICAL EQUATION/AN UNKNOWN AMOUNT, but you are not fragmented. You are not EITHER BLACK OR [Any race on or off the census/Any race left blank on your birth certificate]. Though you may be asked over and over, you do not have to choose. You are BLACK AND [Lady’s Choice]. If you find yourself simply saying BLACK, you do not need to explain. You do not need to answer the short essay question WHAT ARE YOU? That question is not your problem.

Yes, I recognize your parent. Your DARKER/BIRTH/ADOPTIVE/FOSTER parent. Your LIGHTER/NOT-BLACK/FIRST/ADOPTIVE/FOSTER parent. Even if whitefolks mistake your mom for the nanny. Even if your dad has that accent and that nose. Even if you have two moms or no mom, two dads or no dad. Even if you’ve NEVER MET/CAN’T SPEAK the language. You belong to your family. Even if your HALF/STEP/ADOPTED/FOSTER/FULL siblings are LIGHTER/NOT-BLACK. Even if your siblings are DARKER/TALLER/SHORTER/SKINNIER/ROUNDER. Even if you’re a singleton. Even with that hair of yours.

Blackfolks will accept you. Though probably not now. Not when the only boy who likes you is teased so bad he sends someone to break up with you (even though he’s darker than you, his Afro bigger, he’s technically MEXICAN/NOT-BLACK). Not when your NOT-BLACK friends confess they think of you as REGULAR/NORMAL/NOT-BLACK. Not the days it feels like you’re doing hard time in your SCHOOL/NEIGHBORHOOD/VILLAGE/RESERVATION/COMMUNITY/TOWN/SUBURB/CITY, because there are no other BLACK/BROWN/MIXED kids. Or because there are just enough that you avoid acknowledging each other while anyone’s watching. Or because there are so many that the others think you’re weird for not knowing HOW TO BE BLACK. Your unfamiliarity with SLANG/HIPHOP/SORORITIES/CARD-GAMES/DANCE-MOVES/SOUL-FOOD/THE SOUTH doesn’t make you any LESS-BLACK. Though for a while, others who, like you, were raised in WHITE FAMILIES/WHITE SCHOOLS/WHITE SUBURBS will pretend it does. Girls your age can be fearful and mean, but blackwomen will be your greatest allies.

You can be smart. Black Nerds are a thing. Even if your teacher accuses you of plagiarizing, protesting that the paper you spent two weeks writing is far too advanced. Even if the school counselor refuses to recommend you to that fancy, private college, because before he realized that white parent shouting in the office is yours, he said COSMETOLOGY SCHOOL/VO-TECH/COMMUNITY COLLEGE/THE ARMY was good enough.

You can go to the school dance. Even if you don’t have cheerleader looks—white skin and straight blonde hair that can hold a fake curl. Even if you look white but your white mother doesn’t know what to do with your hair or how to teach you to love your butt and thighs. Even if you have freckles all over your face instead of velvety chocolate skin like the rest of the family. Even if you don’t have that marketable mixed look—golden to olive skin, wild curls and BLUE/GREEN/HAZEL eyes that drive the blackboys wild. Even if you don’t like boys and don’t want to wear anything that draws attention to your BREASTS/LACK OF BREASTS. You can go to the school dance, even if there are no AUNTIES/COUSINS/BIG SISTERS to teach you how to move your hips on the dance floor and in the street.

You will figure it out. Even without a strong blackmother, you will learn to flash your palm to check racism before it has a chance to enter you. Even without a strong blackfather, you will learn how to fight your own battles. Even without a blackamerican parent, you will learn that the issue is race, not color, and yes, race certainly matters. But then again, it doesn’t define you, because you, well, you are the opportunity for an entire language to change syntax, for entire countries to rewrite census forms and history. You + Are = Enough. You are new math.

FAITH

DEAREST QUEER AND QUESTIONING BLACK GIRL,

There comes a time in life when things start to get interesting and our thoughts shift from schoolwork and television—a time when many of us begin grappling with not only what Blackness means, but also our sexuality and/or our gender presentation. I wish the world we lived in allowed the space for all humans to explore what sexuality means to them. It would be a different world, indeed. As Black and Brown folks living in America, that is not our reality. I know this first-hand because I present to the world as a Black woman. That is something I am proud of. However, I identify as a first-generation, Afro-German non-binary person, as well as a mother, writer, curator and organizer. All of these traits form who I am. I am grateful for every one of them.

I am still learning who I am at the age of 41. I give myself permission to continue learning until my last breath. My journey was not easy and most likely yours will not be either. The journey to self never is. That is what makes life beautiful and worth fighting for. None of our stories are the same. There is no guide to coming out and that’s not what this will be. I hope that my words will carry you through the storms and remind you that you are not alone. And the only person that can define you is you. Be patient with yourself. It’s not going to be easy, but it will be worth it.

You will go through life hearing horror stories and know the pain of losing people simply for being who you are. Just know that for every one of those stories there are hundreds more queer people in love with their lives. Households filled with people not afraid to love themselves out loud. Streets where you can hold your beloved’s hand and be affirmed. Cities that see you for the human you are. You can be successful and gay. You can be trans and accepted. You can be your complete authentic self and find love. You can be gay and proud. AND you can be Black or POC proud.

You create your own narrative. Why not create a space within yourself to be all things? You will find people that will accept you, fully as you are. And the biggest gift you can give yourself is the chance for that future. Your heart will get broken, as does anyone’s heart who is brave enough to love. You will have to come out a hundred times and it won’t be fair, but it’ll be a chance for you to solidify the bond with yourself, as well as let you decide who is worthy of knowing the whole you. Some days the anger will well up inside you and that’s okay. Find ways to be angry that don’t cause you harm.

Know that just like your Blackness isn’t monolithic, you get to decide what being queer looks like for you. There is no need to reduce yourself to a stereotype. Do what makes you happy and comfortable. Take the time you need and don’t be ashamed of experimenting. Give yourself the space to find out who you are. Make mistakes but always wear protection. You get to decide how loud you live and on what terms. Do not feel like you have to fit into some mold created by society. Especially a society based off erasure, theft, racism, genocide and bigotry. You come from a long line of people that lived their lives to the fullest and no matter how their lives ended, their stories never did. In those moments of sadness, grief and when you feel like it may just be easier to hide who you are, lean upon our ancestors for the strength to carry on.

This is especially true for those that are in situations where it’s dangerous to be out. Hold tight. No matter if you can live authentically today, tomorrow or 20 years from now, you are perfect as you are. Cling to all the stories of survival. If no one, including yourself, has told you today, you are seen. You are loved. You are perfect as you are. Know you are held by ancestors that carried movements and folks on the front lines of revolution today. A lineage of creators that altered the game with every note, word and brush stroke. We are doctors, inventors, CEOs, homemakers, farmers, politicians and more. Bayard Rustin. Josephine Baker. Marsha “Pay It No Mind” Johnson. Sylvia Rivera. Denice Frohman. Janelle Monae. Little Richard. Frida Kahlo. Tracy Chapman. Deborah Batts. Audre Lorde. James Baldwin. Pauli Murray. You are carried by giants . . . never forget that. You are a gift to this world and no matter what they want you to believe, you are worthy of your own happiness.

TATJANA

HEY, BLACK GIRL,

I want to talk to you about your body.

Not in the way that the world talks to you about your body, no. This isn’t about your skin color, your hair, or your size. It’s not about your “curves” and where they reside on your figure, either.

This is solely about your body and the relationship you develop with it over time. It’s about redefining what self-care is and what it can mean for you.

We spend so much time talking about bodies and what they should look like, that we ignore a far more important conversation: what your body has the ability to do.

You are physically capable beyond measure. You can run, jump, climb, lift, build, and, yes, grow with that body. It is yours, and those are your skills to build. And, in the quest to build those skills, you can change the trajectory of your health—both physically and mentally— for the better, in a long term, meaningful way.

People will tell you that being active is about “looking great,” or it’s about “losing weight,” but I want to suggest that you already look good now, regardless of whatever size you are. I want you to know that it’s okay to love your body as it is in this moment, and I want you to know that there are more reasons to love your body beyond how appealing it is to others.

If you are finally able to get even halfway up that rock climbing wall, and you break down into tears because it’s so hard but you really made it halfway and it feels that much more possible now, that’s a reason to love your body. It got you somewhere it couldn’t before.

If your younger sibling goes flying down the sidewalk towards the intersection on her scooter and you take off running after her to save her, and in the moment you are thankful that you could save her, that’s a reason to love your body.

And if you want to love your richly brown skin and your endlessly curly, coily hair, your full figure or your tiny frame, and the twinkle in your brown eye? Of course, you can. You should.

But also know that valuing your body for what it can do gives you a different kind of drive. Skills are meant to be built—train, push yourself, and give yourself the chance to grow. Skills are meant to build character just as much as they’re meant to build ability. You are soft and your humanity must always be recognized, but building resilience means you know what it looks and feels like to get back up when you’re down. You had to fall off that wall a few times before you even got halfway—getting back up after getting knocked down is a skill set that extends beyond training, too.

Do not let the world tell you the only important thing—or even the most important thing—about your body is what it looks like. It is an essential part of self-care to not only know how to move your body, but know that this movement is the best kind of care for your body.

The most transformative kind of love is the kind that builds you up, helps you feel capable, and gives you the self-esteem to face the world with a clear head, a full heart, and a powerful drive. The kind of self-care that helps you move your body is the truest embodiment of that love that you can give yourself. Embrace it fully, love it deeply, and build it powerfully. You will thrive in the truest sense of the word, and you deserve that, and so much more.

Sincerely,

ERIKA

HEY THERE, WONDERFUL HUMAN!

Listen. There will be people who will tell you how to think about what is beautiful and what isn’t. They will do this right in your face, knowing that what they describe as beautiful is nothing like the way you look or the way you dress—your beauty, your style.

Friends might talk to you as if you are missing out on something because you prefer to wear more plain clothing or gender non-conforming clothing. Like what old lesbians called androgynous. I want you to know that your style and queer identity is yours to claim and express how you want. That is what makes you beautiful—that you find joy living authentically in your skin, loving yourself with flaws and knowing that there will be moments when you are flawless.

Turn off what everyone else has to say in order to quiet yourself and think about what you like. Discover what it takes to feel good in your own skin and to feel confidence in what you wear and how you express yourself. It might take some time and trials to figure it out. Claim it. Once you do, challenge yourself to express it. You can do it. Know that you can choose to not conform to what Black girls and young women, yes even queer ones, are “supposed” to look like. I understand that fitting in is sometimes important, but if fitting in means that you have to leave some of who you are and how you want to express yourself behind, then take time to think it through. Ask yourself if it’s worth it. You get to decide. I’m rooting for you. I want you to thrive and know that you are a beautiful human being.

Sincerely,

SEVEN

DEAR BLACK GIRL!

Whatever is growing out of your head is beautiful.

Do not let them tell you different.

In this day and age, where folks are constantly making YouTube videos about “the big chop” and “why I went natural,” a part of me wants to laugh. When I went “natural” more than 25 years ago before, it was considered abnormal. Not something you want to do. In my conservative corner of the Midwest even among other Black people I was criticized and shunned for my hair.

Once while I was growing out my TWA (teeny-weeny afro), I was out at the grocery with an older family member. They were so ashamed of my hair, they refused to introduce me to their co-worker. I was hurt, but not stunned. That moment gave me more strength to know I was headed in the right direction for me. But let’s back track a bit.

At the time I chopped, I was 19 years old and a sophomore in college. I was suffering a serious identity crisis, which ultimately plunged me into a deep well of depression. Thanks to a strong support network, I was able to climb out of confusion and feelings of worthlessness and despair. While pulling towards a different life, I looked in the mirror one day and realized that the hair on top of my head just didn’t make sense. I did not understand something so basic about myself as this stuff growing out of my body. As I fought to regain a sense of self and love of self, I had to learn to love all the pieces of myself including every single kinky strand growing on my head.

On a spring day in 1993, I woke up, called the barber, sat down in that chair, and asked them to shave my head. The barber was confused. My hair hung past my shoulders at the time. “All of it?” He asked. “All of it,” I said. That confused him. He convinced me to get a “texturizer” after cutting my hair down to one inch. I didn’t realize at the time that “texturizer” is code for a relaxer taken out quickly, so the hair doesn’t completely straighten. I hated my “texturized” hair even more than the straightened hair, as it looked like a bad attempt at trying to be something that I was not. I needed to be me in the raw.

A month later, I went to a different barber and had him shave my head bald. I will spare you all the details, but the early part of my natural hair journey was intense and often lonely. Back then, most Black haircare products were made for straightened hair and those messed with my tresses. It was years of trial by fire, experimenting with everything on the shelf and new hairstyles that hadn’t become mainstream yet—twists, Bantu knots, cornrow styles and more. But most often for a long time, I went straight old school with Blue Magic or Royal Crown hair grease, a stiff brush, water and occasionally a pressing comb. I wore extension hair braids for years, not realizing the chemicals in that plastic hair were damaging my hair. The more I learned, the more I became comfortable with my hair and six years after the first chop, I got chopped again to remove all the hair damaged by pressing comb straightening and never-ending braiding. That second chop has been with me for nearly 17 years now.

I tell this story not because I am encouraging you to cut your hair or even because I think this outdated journey will make sense to you today. I tell you this story because there will be times in your life when you must reach within and find yourself. When you must learn to let go of people’s notions about you and what you should be. And when you do this, you may find you walk alone—that your journey and strength to follow the beat of your own drum is the encouragement others need to find themselves and be set free.

This lesson about hair is applied to all of life. For the rest of your life. Be brave my queen. You are descended from powerful people. You have what it takes.

You are beautiful.

As is.

You are enough.

Namaskar!

EVETTE

TO A MAGICAL BLACK GIRL,

First things first: I want you to know what an honor and a privilege it is for me to be able to write to you. I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about the kinds of things I would have wanted to hear from a Black woman when I was growing up and figuring myself out. I hope what I have to say will be helpful to you. These things are important for me to say and, I think, important for you to hear.

Growing up I was a very passionate reader. I especially loved fairy tales, folk tales, and fantasy novels—stories where a kid stumbled across some magical object, book or hidden power that took them on exciting adventures. When I was much older, I realized that I had to make some mental adjustments to relate to these stories. The kids in them never looked anything like me. The main characters were usually boys, with girls in the background. And heroes were always white. Sometimes I would mentally insert myself into the story, because I didn’t see why a young brown-skinned girl couldn’t be magical or powerful or be the one who saves the day. I don’t want you to have to do that. I want you to have new stories, new adventures, and new dreams, without having to change anything to make room for you. I want you to know that “Black girl magic” means something. It is not just a way to sell tote bags or sparkly eye shadow.

My beloved fantasy stories were a way to hold on to a childhood that I felt was slipping away, or more accurately, being taken away. I was a bookish and smart little girl and people often treated me as if I understood things or could make decisions far beyond my years. My body grew and developed early, and some adults behaved toward me as if I were an adult too. There were many times that men said inappropriate things to me or made me feel uncomfortable. The people I should have been able to confide in—the adults who should have protected me—sometimes seemed to blame me for the bad behavior of others.

I was a good student, but sometimes teachers seemed doubtful that my work was my own. And why did I feel that adults in my life were disappointed that I wasn’t interested in things they thought I should be good at, like sports, and suspicious of the things I was good at, like writing or acting? I learned not to show my anger or fear or even sadness, because those emotions seemed to be off-limits to me; I was punished or criticized for showing them. My white friends could throw tantrums, talk back, be defiant in class, and make mistakes without being treated as if they had committed a terrible crime. But I learned to be still, quiet, strong, and always stay in control. It was a survival technique, and I still see too many young Black girls being forced to do the same. Black girls and women are not allowed to display our full range of emotions, to be too smart, or to need help. We are not given the space to figure things out for ourselves.

Do these things sound familiar? They are common to the experiences of Black girls. If what I have shared does not mirror your experiences, it probably connects to someone you know. If this letter does anything, I hope it makes clear that women like me, who were once Black girls like you, are out here. We see you. Your voice matters and we’re listening.

My favorite stories also helped me feel okay about wanting to explore and express myself. Maybe, most importantly, they helped me see myself as a complicated, whole person. I learned to use my own creativity and imagination to push boundaries and create a place for myself in a world that sometimes didn’t seem to know what to do with me. First books did this for me; later it was movies, TV shows, and performances in plays and speech tournaments. For you, something different—basketball, cooking, doing hair or makeup, or something else may give you hope.

I have hopes for you.

I hope you truly get to be a kid, and to have fun, to play games, to be innocent, to feel joy, and to feel free.

I hope part of that freedom is to explore, to push boundaries, to mess up, and to get the chance to learn and grow from it when you do.

I hope you discover your own strength and power and aren’t afraid to use it.

I also hope you find out that it’s ok to not feel strong all the time; that it’s healthy and normal to sometimes feel vulnerable, and to need comfort and protection. And that you deserve to have it.

I hope you know that you have a right to anger, and that you shouldn’t be shamed or punished for expressing that anger in healthy ways.

I hope that every aspect of your life will nurture your love, particularly your self-love. I hope you appreciate the beauty of you, from the color of your skin to the way your hair grows, to the body that supports and moves you through the world.

I hope you know that you have the right to feel safe and set boundaries around that body. It belongs to you and you are the one who gets to make decisions about it. I hope there is someone knowledgeable and experienced who you trust if you need help making those decisions.

I hope you know that you are a person of incredible potential and untold capabilities, and the world is open to you in ways you may not be able to imagine now. If something interests or motivates you, I hope you pursue it, even if the path seems difficult or unsure.

I hope you learn to use your voice to express yourself, advocate for yourself or others, and to use it to cry, scream, laugh, sing, yell or do whatever you need to do to feel heard.

And I hope you find stories you love that inspire you to create your own very potent form of Black girl magic. Your own magic is better than the spells in any fairy tale or fantasy movie. And it is yours entirely.

Wishing you the very best of everything,

ADRIANNE

MY TRANS SISTERS,

To be a young, trans person of color is nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. On the contrary, you should celebrate with joy, love and pride. If only I could have been brave, bold and true when I was your age!

My transition and acceptance came later in life. I didn’t come out until I was 26 years old. I always knew who I was. In my earliest memories I recall knowing that I was meant to be one of the girls. Being one of the boys just didn’t make any sense.

Since I didn’t start my transition until I was 26, I spent my entire teen years and early 20s never, ever feeling comfortable, sexy or powerful in my own skin. I just felt lost and misplaced.

When I started my transition and my hair got longer, I remember the ecstatic feeling of seeing these tight, kinky coils of curly hair growing out. They had laid dormant for far too long. I started to play around with it in several different styles. I still remember how amazingly beautiful I felt seeing myself in the mirror with my Afro, bra and panties on. It was an image I had often admired and yearned for. It was finally me! I felt powerful, confident, sexy—like a goddess!

I couldn’t believe it took me all these years, but it finally happened. That is why I am so proud of you for being you. Being transgender is not a curse; it is a gift—a liberating gift. You have the power to authentically live your life and present the way you have always felt is right. When you are emotionally aligned with your physical self, nothing in the world can stop you.

Family and friends may not have been as supportive as you hoped when you came out. Know that they are dealing with a lot of things also—just as you did before coming to your resolve to transition. It’s hard coming out as trans. It is different than coming out as gay or lesbian. You are coming out to the world as a different being entirely. Family and friends will always have mixed reactions and feelings. It took me several years to understand that some family and friends are grieving the loss of who they once knew and the gender they once identified with me. Essentially my pre-transition self is dead. Gone forever. Some family and friends need time to grieve that loss. Some never recover and never accept; others will. That doesn’t make any lack of support justified. Maybe it offers some perspective. People who really love and care for you will come back around.

It can be a scary thing to be a trans person of color. We see in the media all the time how trans women of color are attacked and murdered. This can be enough to make anyone want to hide and not live their true lives. But that is not who we are. That is not what we do. We have suffered too much to hide in the dark. Life is meant to be lived open and free. That’s what we will do together. Our community of trans brothers and sisters is strong. You’ll never be alone. There is always someone that has your back.

Stay true to your head and heart. The world is yours.

Love,

BAILEY