A Love Letter to Black Men
Dear, Black Men
When do Black Boys become Black Men? Is it when he forfeits his right to be loved and cherished? Or is it simply time that demands that a boy inherit his fate? A demi-god of competitive dominance and force; barely existing to prove his worth. Do the rights of passage for boyhood begin at the crossroads of survival? Traversing through round-a-bouts of isolation and escapism. Ultimately, ending at a cul de sac facing the monuments of all that he must conquer or destroy for self-preservation. He enters the world disoriented because everything he is must be left behind to become a man. The old world will teach him that love and communion will make him weak. The old world has forsaken him and they do know what they have done. We are fractured aspects of a single origin, existing before time wove our universe into an infinite mortality. We can no longer split poles while being shackled to each other's hearts. We can choose to free ourselves from the prophecies of false prophets who profit from our wounds. It is my love for you that motivates the necessity of this letter. It is my hope, that you find solace in the words that I have laced with our healing. May these words become a magnum opus, a testimony that Black Women have never stopped loving Black Men.
For the record, I never hated you. I always hated the way the wounds we carry have divided our families and swayed our allegiance to vows of silence. Our entertainment is filled with the exploitation of our wounds, vices, and psychological knots. If there was ever a time to acknowledge the ways that I have hurt you or ever turned a blind eye to your pain. This is my atonement. You have always been the resilient ones and I have not always been able to reconcile the ways that this world has chipped away at your morale. I was once too consumed by my own afflictions while condemning your lack of empathy out of self-righteousness. We have both cut deep in the war of emotional weaponry. We are the Alpha and Omega. I bow my head before the first being in creation whose mere existence is proof of divinity made manifest. I am awaiting your true crowning. As I braid the thorns that have attempted to tear apart our sacred bonds. I place the wreath of our liberation upon the heaviest of heads, a coronation only fit for Gods among mere men. I pray that our Suns never bear such weight. You and your brothers move with such bravado. As if you know the museums are filled with your greatest works; as if your progeny have pillaged every nation attempting to erase every monument that has reminded him of your glory. This letter is for the ones who continue to forge new paths and for those who have chosen to hold down the fort. You are the Fathers of all nations. Everything about your being is prolific.
You have been both the servant and the Pharoah, the mercenary and the sharecropper, the samurai and the thuggee. You have carried the burden of every nation and now creation yields before the hero of a thousand faces for its next assignment. It is my honor to be of service to you. We have built empires of spiritual wealth and knowledge. And we shall reign again; an inheritance given from thriving in an unfathomable darkness. As prophetized we are watching Babylon fall and its wealth is only artificial. We fell asleep under the ancient ones only to awaken as mere myths. I have admired your attempt to cloak yourself in many forms but every time you were deserving of my love. Before you were ever my radiant Sun you were my Divine Lover.
Your mind is such a beautiful place to explore. I often contemplate on the things, you wish to keep hidden. Your light casts shadows that have grown wild hiding the parts of you reserved for the worthy. Yesterday another Black Man decided that his life was dispensable. Another Sun whose light was devoured by Sycophants and Titans who will ration his remains to the communities that hungered for his presence. I've seen you rise from the ashes. You have turned a cold world into southern Summers. Forgive those lost in delusions of grandeur and those who are unable to stay the course. They move in any direction to feel the warmth of any Sun but their own. They are disassociated from their intrinsic nature; so they settle for money, power, and respect. Creations of their own making but now subject to his enslavement. Money tells him his worth and decides how to divide his time. Power sways his moral consciousness; so he wields an unmerciful force with no accountability for the manifestations of his cruelty, while he gambles his respect in the game of negotiations. He settles for retelling the stories of greater men because he doesn't concern himself with connecting to the greatness within. He does not seek the hierophant for the ageless wisdom. He prefers to escape his wounds with podcast discourse and scrolling through algorithms of succubus adorned in glamour magick. The Pantheon has been asleep for what has dragged on as an eon. This is your clarion call, the trumpets blown by every order of angels for the awakened ones. If these words have found you, there is a deep yearning for your homecoming. Some fear you while some revere you, and there are those who must steer clear of you.
Your throne resides in the heart of your Kingdom. It can no longer be a place where we collectively hold the fear of you. Black mirrors act as deep reservoirs holding the night terrors that keep me up at night about you. I want these words of affirmation to dance like California wildfires in your heart. May the tears we spill become ambrosia to our dehydrated soul. You are entitled to be loved and adored. Your love is like no other. Your love is healing and your love is needed. Black Men, before the fall of mankind you have always been high value, coveted, and prized. The burden of proof is placed on the world that has fallen apart from dishonoring this universal decree. Your worth is not dependent on your submission to a capitalistic patriarchal regime. Your existence is the Jachin and Boaz of Humanity. You are the gatekeepers to the new world and the monuments of an old world hidden in plain sight.
I offer this medicine. Wherever you find yourself when you hear these words; I pray that you are met with the love that honors your spirit. If you ever bow your head, let it be in reverence to the Suns who will inherit the wisdom and not our burdens. I pray that you have been released from the things that no longer serve you. I send my love to free you from the weight of all the things that others have forced you to carry. I pray the treasures you guard find homes on shelves that can bear the weight of it all. Whether you are as light as hues of blackberry molasses or as dark as bayou butter pecan, I know that you carry the type of wounds that are too fragile for touch. Intrusive memories are hidden within the corridors of a mind that has never mourned the things that have been lost to time. Where do the children go when the medicine man has been replaced with the Titans of big pharma? Who finds the lost souls when the Shaman is trapped in grind culture? Who will ordain our Suns if he is surrounded by those competing for a hierarchy that ultimately compromises the virtue of his life force? Comparison and domination are the lords of weak men. You are the archetype of the Divine Masculine both in his higher and lower nature. Community does not make you weak. Community and love are the pillars of your strength; without them, you are reduced to caricatures and tropes that incite fear. The fear of you has always been the kiss of Judas. Fear that you will do to others what has been done to you. There is no time for vengeance we have work to finish. I want to commit to loving you out loud; as if my very existence depended on it. As if the integrity of our legacies is dependent upon my advocacy. It is my desire that if you are without communion on most days, you find yourself among Black Men who are philosophers, architects, and visionaries awaiting your arrival. I do not want you to go to another sunset without knowing the love that is held for you. If it were up to me you would be fed from yields of organic crops grown in the richest soils. Your body would be varnished in sacred oils and adorned in gold and precious jewels. I want to birth the visions you share with me; where our children are truly free to create at will. If you ever choose to provide love and protect the divine will of sovereign beings. This letter is for you.
