Dear little black girl swinging in the tree,

At five years old the world seems too big. I know that you are thinking about the stars beyond the clouds, making yourself feel smaller and smaller as you imagine all those that lived before you. You still do that. You're listening to your new brother play with your other brothers, while your little sister cries inside the house. You were too young to feel the stares people gave your family whenever you went to the store. You never noticed how people looked at your moms, one the same tone of ebony on your face and the other as pale as milk. All you could see was how they smiled at each other, how they held hands as if they were afraid of any space, and you, for the first time, saw what love really was. You never noticed the open-mouthed strangers gawking at your brothers, one pale with freckles riddled across his nose, one with skin that made you think of Aladdin, and the other, the new brother, with skin the color of caramel. But, you and your sisters looked quite alike, except that you were darker. I know how your sibling teases you for the color of your skin. They call you dark chocolate, burnt toast, they claim to be unable to see you in the dark (which you thought was stupid because you can't really see anything in the dark) and it doesn't hurt now but it will. I want you to know that your black is beautiful, it might just take a few years to see that.

Dear little black girl running through the fields,

At nine years old things seem harder. You learn how possessive boys can be when one runs around telling everyone you were his girlfriend. This led to you learning how powerful a kick to the groin can be. I remember how angry you were when your teacher found out and gave you indoor detention for having a boyfriend when he should have gotten in trouble for being gross. You learn how cruel people can be (and how cruel you can be). No one knew that you yanked that girl's hair, yanked it hard until she fell. It was only fair, I'm sure you thought, because she kept making fun of your hair, bound tightly in many pig-tails with colorful barrettes and baubles. Not many know you cut girls' hair off in large chunks when they teased you for your outfits or your mismatched nail polish. You didn't tell anyone about the bullies because you could handle it on your own. You never liked asking for help and you still don't. But, it showed. I know that you were tired of people mispronouncing your name, calling it "exotic" and wondering where it comes from, wondering where you come from. You told your third-grade teacher to call you Nicole instead of Nikkyra and you broke your mothers' hearts. You didn't know then why they were mad and you blamed them (both of them) for giving you this burden. But, I promise it won't always be so. Your name means victory of the people and at 11 years old you start to fit that title. You, defender of the bullied, creator of the Meadow Lake Elementary Friendship Club, got into some trouble those last two years. To your teachers, it was just drama, but to you, it was an injustice. You felt hate in your gut for the first time. Sadly, it won't be the last.

Dear little black girl with her face in a book,

At 12 you meet the girl you will hate for a very long time. You, in a new place with people you don't know, are told, in front of all these people, that you are, in fact, going to hell. You watched her wrinkle her nose as you tried to explain to someone about your parents, two women in love, and she said you were going to hell. Actually, if I remember correctly, she said your whole family was going to hell. She explained, delicately, condescendingly, that it was not right for two women to be together, let alone raise children, as she was sure you knew since it was in the Bible. It was your first encounter with Christianity and it forever changed you. She looked at you with such pity, I remember. She never looked at you differently. Since then, you challenged anyone else to say something about your family, that you loved dearly despite all the issues you kept close to heart. You were bullied again too. They called you "Oreo", "wanna be a white girl", and they told you to stop pretending. The black students didn't see you as one of them. But neither did the white kids. Everything you did was like a "white girl", the way you dressed, spoke and sang. At this time, you couldn't recognize the internalized racism. You just wanted to be you. You never intended to be white, I know. I wish you knew that society has more control over you than you think. It will take you a long time to understand what society has done to you.

Dear little black girl singing to the stars,

At 16 you learn that things can fall apart. Your mothers, who raised you, taught you about love, showed you that you could be a princess and be powerful, who taught you that you could change the world, and gave you the fervor to not conform, are no longer together. Your family is scattered and at 16 you had to become 40. You have a little sister who needs you more than ever and the only reason you wake up every day is for her. Your mind is pushing back the anxiety and the depression because you have to go to school today. You're forcing yourself to talk to the counselor and you learn to let yourself cry. You push yourself in a choir, theater, and dance. I want you to know that one day, she comes back. And while you are waiting, don't forget that you still have your other mom, with skin as pale as milk, who is working every day to keep you happy. Your mother, who teaches you about strength with every step she takes, needs you as she heals. I know that you want to run, move to a new state and let people forget you. But, you're exactly where you need to be and you need to trust that.

Dear little black girl yearning for the moon,

You have come so far. Don't let yourself give up now.