She addresses me with steadfast conviction: “Ayo, we can’t stop fighting midway. I know I have not always been the best mom. I’ve missed a lot of moments in your life for the cause. And yes, I know it’s not fair, but baby, that’s the price of the ticket. Don’t run out on See Us. Don’t run out on me.”

She pleads with me, growing smaller and smaller with every word. My mom has never been the same size as any other human. She’s always been larger than life, and the sight of her shrinking makes my soul ache.

Tears flood my eyes and stream down my face. I shake my head in disbelief at the woman before me. “How can I run out on you, Mom? You’re the love of my life. When I asked you for makeup so I could be beautiful, you handed me the works of Maya Angelou. I asked to dress up as a superhero for Halloween, and you made me an Ellen Craft costume. And when I was confused about religion, you took me to worship at the house of Aretha, Etta, and Whitney. Then we’d find ourselves ‘speaking in tongues’ as we listen to hip-hop.

“You knew racism, whether casual or institutional, a gust of wind or a tornado, would try to throw me off-balance. So you gave me all those experiences to help me stand my ground. But I’m not strong like you. I’m scared all the time. I’m scared of Sandra Bland’s eyes and all the other victims. Their ghosts seek me out. I’m tired of being haunted.

“Mom, you should have told me the truth about Black girl magic; you should have told me that magic is heavy. That carrying it could curve, bend, and eventually break our backs and our spirits. Please, don’t make me carry this anymore . . .”

I sob into her arms. She holds me tight against her, rocks me slowly, and whispers, “It’s okay, baby. No more weight. No more ghosts. You’re free . . .”

Chapter Ten

Giants

The world glides by in a rush of bright colors as I pump my fist in the air and shout along with the music. The DJ has the crowd all hyped up. The roller rink is dimly lit; I can barely make out my friends’ faces. I just follow the glowing lights coming from the skates of the person in front of me. We all move and stumble in the same direction like a happy, drunken centipede.