Because Black. Because She. Because We. ✊🏾
Black history isn’t just the past—it’s the present, the fight, the resilience, and the win. Because she black, because she hoop, because she dunk, because she tatted up. 🏀✍🏾
Because she locked up, because she free.
Because she paid, because she write.

For every woman who has been told to shrink, to be quiet, to make herself smaller than she is—this is for you. 💛

We have carried weightless burdens, sat with our knees pressed together, made room for others while feeling like we had none for ourselves. But listen, you are seen. You belong.

The mic is our altar. The pen, our prayer.
"Caseloads of young, the North Star foggy.
When I was a child someone hit me so hard I lost my sense of beauty.
I hear the ocean beating where the ice marches over the shore.
Freedom is the choice to cross a river—
tell a child another world exists."

As a poet, I often reflect on the writers who've shaped my journey—like Derrick O'Brown, who virtually visited our class before earning the Pulitzer, or Claudia Rankine, Gregory Pardlo, and even Robert Frost. While I can’t rank them, each has left a lasting impression on me.

Teaching poetry is more than just analyzing words on a page—it's about exploring the world we live in. I’m considering not only the books we’ll read but also the deeper discussions we’ll have. This is a space to use poetry as a lens to examine the social issues of our time.

Yeah, everybody seems to know everybody. And it’s funny how imposter syndrome—oh, the stories all sound the same. But when you’re in it, whew, it hits different. I’m in these classes, fresh off my master’s, like 'I made it. I’m here!' But then that little voice creeps in, 'Am I supposed to be here?

✨ Black culture. Black love. Black life. Black poetry. ✨

Reading these poems was like discovering a reflection of my own voice—a legacy stretching back to the Harlem Renaissance, to the brilliance of Gwendolyn Brooks and beyond.

For every woman who has been told to shrink, to be quiet, to make herself smaller than she is—this is for you. 💛

We have carried weightless burdens, sat with our knees pressed together, made room for others while feeling like we had none for ourselves. But listen, you are seen. You belong.

I honor the women, like my mother, who nurture, heal, and plant seeds of possibility—the ones who come bearing wisdom, resilience, and love in ways we don’t always recognize until we’ve grown into them.

She doesn’t need history books or faraway places to know what thrives.

Legion, for we are many.
Anthony Hill, a name etched in memory, a life mistaken for a threat. His war-torn mind was exposed, his body unarmed yet perceived as armed. On that fateful day, March 9, 2015, an Officer arrived, and instead of compassion, panic spoke louder.

I honor the woman who shaped me—my grandmother.
She was Southern steel and Sunday elegance—bold enough to snatch a snake mid-conversation, yet gentle enough to heal with her hands. She walked heavy, lived boldly, and never let fear call the shots.

So let me tell y’all how God’s plan works—He’ll close a door just to open a hallway, and when you’re ready to give up, He’ll slide a miracle through. 🖤
7 years ago, I thought I was just getting my Master’s to teach, but a no turned into a yes, and that “yes” came with mentors who saw a bigger vision