Black. Bunched. Mass. Mom.

These are the days when I’m taken back to barrettes and braids, little corduroy jumpers and precious little shoes. Days like this and news like this take me back to childhood days of drawing on sidewalks and bikes with extra wheels. The careless days, the days when you knew you mattered and couldn’t ever imagine otherwise.

Because I was a lucky little colored girl.

Maya’s voice was big enough, the stories she told important enough, that my careless days were joyful days. I was a colored girl who mattered because the stories of little colored girls were being told, and read, and thought about. Little colored girls had, thanks to Maya, become people, too. Our preciousness had finally become manifest because her words so pierced through the minds and hearts of a nation that had not really stopped to see us.

And when I was old enough to start to…

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