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I dream every single day for Babygirl. I see people in business suits on the bus, and I imagine Babygirl grown up with a briefcase and a nice executive office job. I watch a TV show and imagine Babygirl as a famous actress winning an Oscar. There’s so much I want for her that sometimes I think the seams of my skin aren’t enough to contain every hope I have. And I whisper it to her all the time. When I’m feeding her. When she’s asleep in my arms. When we are playing at the park. I whisper all the everything I know she can be and the ways I’ll fight for her to be them. I want her to know her
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“She’s such an adorable child,� an older white woman says from across the aisle. “Your sister?� I smile at Babygirl. “No, ma’am. My daughter.� The smile fades from her face but mine stays right where it is. I’ve met this kind of woman before. The kind with real strict ideas about what makes certain people respectable. The kind that gets sour-faced at learning Babygirl is my daughter, but who would have sympathy if I was of a paler complexion. The kind that looks at Angelica’s colorful hair and calls her ghetto under her breath, but thinks a white tween with purple cornrows is charming and
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“Girl, it’s time to step into your own light and stop being afraid.�
