Practicing survival

No photos could do justice to the absolute sweetness of this scene—Harper's mom was doing her hair, while two of her aunts entertained her, all four of them in a circle in our kitchen, the room in the house where Black women have gathered to brush and oil and care for each other's hair, and tend each other's hearts, for centuries. 

It was such a sacred and joyful communion, with Harper being folded into the circle of women in her family, women who will love and care for her always, who will laugh with her and smooth the creases from her garments and gaze at her with eyes that let her know even without words, that she is always loved, unconditionally and forever loved.

Harper's mom and dad arrived back from their week in Amsterdam yesterday, and she was overjoyed to see them, but really, she'd been fine with us all week, not pining for them overmuch, just trundling along, as if she understood quite clearly they would be back for her soon, and these other people belonged to her, too. 

Her parents got matching "H" tattoos in Amsterdam, on a whim, because the tattoo shop looked like an enchanted place when they happened upon its storefront, and also, I am sure, because they were missing their girl, with whom they FaceTimed daily. The letter looks so much smaller on her dad's wrist but the stencil used was the exact same size.

We had a cast of thousands over here all day yesterday, not really but it felt that way, with us and Harper and her mom and dad, her grandma, my daughter, and one of my Brooklyn nieces, who had met up with her older sister in Amsterdam and traveled with them for the week. It felt downright festive, all the talk and chatter and playing with Harper and catching up on Survivor and hearing about travel adventures, and eating lobster rolls and soup, and joining our similarly obsessive natures to conquer a particularly hard puzzle, and the peaceful camaraderie of doing that together around the dining table while Harper was down for her nap, and it was just an all around lovely family day. 

Now everyone has gone again. The Brooklyn folks left at close to midnight, while the Dallas crew departed for the airport at 4 AM this morning, Harper in a jolly mood, ready for the next adventure. Now it's back to being just the man and me, and I initially fantasized that I would sleep all day today but here I am, awake and catching up on editing stories for the magazine, and perusing news of the outside world, and oh man, did that ever burst my sweet little family bubble. 

So here we are at the twilight of an empire, witnessing how a superpower falls. The thing is, it doesn't collapse for everyone. In this version of the Fall of Rome, the technocrats consolidate power and wealth by destroying the state, the press, and academia, thus silencing the voice of the people. They cut off all avenues of individual autonomy and freedom to elevate one's fortunes, with the goal of creating an entrenched and disposable peasant class beholden to their rule by fiat. They are already miles and miles down this road. Seen in this light, a gathering like yesterday's is nothing less than an act of resistance, a practice of survival through community, through love.