An Open Letter To Mothers Of Little Black Girls Who Were Triggered When Watching Trump Molest Selamnesh At His Rally
When Sage was 6, one of her closest friends had a party at American Girl Place. Fourteen little Black girls showed up in a limo, beautiful dresses, shiny shoes, ruffled socks, big bows in their hair. Like God had dropped little Angels on Chicago and Michigan Ave.
They pranced in the store, giggling with their friends, shopping for their dolls, no different than the 100 plus other girls dressed up and happy, except they were Black.
All of them. And their mamas were, too.
They sat at the largest table in the cafe. And were catered to, like the other girls there, eating and celebrating, except they were Black.
Because I dance to the rhythm of racial ambiguity around midwestern white people, because Sage is a stunning milk chocolate brown, people often don’t think she’s my daughter. Even though we look ridiculously alike.
So I heard things that day. Things I know were said because these girls were Black.
I heard things when I lagged behind the group, things like:
“I’ve never seen such cute ones.”
“I just want to pet them”
“I’m gonna take their pictures”
Many times, when I’ve walked downtown with my children, random people have touched their curls. Reached to caress their skin. Complimented me on “dressing” them so well.