![]() ![]() My anger seethed when I was called “girl”by a white man during a meeting with male colleagues. While I sought to understand my place in the world as a working mother, to unlearn the atrocities continually normalized as acts of injustice (see: police brutality, drug addiction as punishable rather than rehabilitative, and a government that refuses to support economically deprived citizens), I realized I was losing my footing (see: self) in this full-time balancing act. I found a new home in Bed-Stuy and attempted to raise a culturally aware, healthy, and actualized Black girl child. I was in my mid-twenties and had just given birth to a daughter before relocating to Brooklyn, New York. It was the universe, or the ancestors, or intuition that brought Audre Lorde to me, a Black woman, a Black woman writer, and a Black mother. Years ago, when I was a young Black woman barely recognizable to myself because of the churn of heat and anger just beneath my surface, I found the writings of Audre Lorde. ![]()
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