Here

In a country that is inherently antagonistic and its foundation and overtly antagonistic in its actions, expressing Black joy is a radical act. To make proclamations of one’s surroundings, aspirations and desires—to simply have the audacity to imagine out loud is a contribution to the archival oral tradition that records this truth: We are here. We live. We suffer. We die. We survive, if not thrive. We dream and fulfill our dreams and long for more, nonetheless. 

and

I am writing only what is at stake, each time I sit down to write. I am making art that is reflective of all my worlds in what feels like an attempt at radical normativity. We are just as complicated and encompassing as the expansive blackness of soil. I'm moving our dirt up a few notches on the hierarchy of grit to be examined, taken seriously, admired, enjoyed, & felt with hands & feet. 

Now

I am on a constant quest to interrogate. What I am trying to discover is, how? Our states of being, our lack, our triumph—how we move and arrive, how we make and shift and wish—how we name and rename and revive. The laughter is worth so much when the joke always knocks up against some shamed truth. The truth is always inside. Inside, always, is a call for joy: an uncontrollable, instinctual expanding, strengthening and releasing that is loud and fluid.