Vibes, Collard Greens, and Grief.

On Kinship, Loneliness, and Why Black Folks Know Everybody’s Family

Let me go ahead and say it off top. I don’t have kids. But not having kids of my own don’t mean I ain’t raising none. I’m Auntie to my best friend’s babies, to the sixteen year old from my old church who texted me about having sex for the first time ’cause she was too nervous to talk to her mama, to the random kid at the corner store who I keep in check with a quick “Act like you got some sense, lil man.”

If you’re Black in America, chances are you’ve been called cuz by somebody who didn’t know your name, but they knew your spirit. And that was enough. I am an auntie, not just to my blood nieces and nephews (though I do love those tiny maniacs), but to the kids on my block, the grown cousins who still don’t know how to file their taxes, and the random Black children who find me in Walmart and instinctively behave because I look like I’ll tell their mama.

Because I will. And I have the number.

I’m the one you call when your doula flakes, and you need someone to bring ginger tea and re-twist your hair while you cry. The one who will pop up at your baby shower with diapers, wipes, and a folding chair because I know y’all didn’t rent enough. I know how to make your baby stop crying, fix your plate, and…