I travel often and I don’t usually get homesick. I like to think that I am so adaptable in the ways I can make any space home. But in between whispers about cranes and magic and Master P’s words of black wisdom, I found my mind somewhere in Harlem surrounded by black people.
I heard loud robust laughter in the distance accompanied by some trap music. I smelled oxtails and coconut oil. And then there was me standing in the intersection waiting for the light to change, smiling. It was weird. All of it…
Solange made me miss being surrounded by blackness. Yes, Greece is an amazing place with welcoming people, but there’s no home like black mother’s hug.
I’m sure the feeling will pass, but I am hoping it won’t. I never want to lose the craving for my people.