“I think you are allowing people in your ear. I think you have gotten off track. And you really need to get back on—quickly.”

“Argh!” I shout in frustration.

“I’m right about this, Ayo, and I think you know that. I started See Us. It’s supposed to be your legacy. Walking away would be a mistake.”

“No, it’s not! You want to know what’s insane? Leaving a party because of watermelons!” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.

The watermelon argument was one of our biggest. Last year, we went to a party at the MoMA. We happened to be one of a handful of Black folks there, so we kind of stood out. The host encouraged us to eat and mingle. She guided us toward the buffet table. She pointed toward the thick-cut slices of watermelon and said, “I know you two will love these.” My mom went off. We had to leave.

“We agreed never to rehash that argument,” she reminds me.

“That was before I was kicked out of the cookout.”

“You know I was kidding about that.”

“Were you? Because I can see from the way you are looking at me right now, you think I’m letting everyone down.”

“I don’t know about everyone, Ayo, but yes, you are letting me down.” My mother’s tone can be a healing tonic or a weapon. And right now, her tone might as well be a hatchet.

A lump forms in my throat. My body grows tense and feverish, but I plow ahead and say what’s on my mind.

“That’s another reason I want out of See Us. I don’t want to spend my life having to call out every instance of racism. Sometimes a watermelon is just a watermelon.”

Ms. Hightower lives a few bus stops away from me, and given the chill in the air, I should take the M3 bus. But right now, I don’t feel like waiting for it. I need to walk; I need to think. So, I head down 125th on foot. Anywhere in the world a group of Black people gathers, a parade of hairstyles follows, and Harlem is no different. I encounter a wide range of wigs—from bargain-bin synthetic to high-priced Brazilian. I walk by a man with thick Rastafarian locs that symbolize spirituality, and a couple with short, spiky, colorful locs, worn for fashion. When you add to that the myriad braided hairstyles, you basically have a runway hair show.

Normally, I people-watch, because here, you rarely see the same look twice. But my mind isn’t on that right now. And while I note the hair, I don’t see anything else. The parade goes by me in a blur. I don’t even remember walking past Red Rooster or Sylvia’s Restaurant. And normally, the tempting aroma of smothered chicken and biscuits would draw me in.