The pressure to be profound, to write profoundly. The expectation to be everything like “the greats,” while being nothing like them at all; to have your words be contemporary innovative nods to all the great Black feminist thinkers who have achieved virality posthumously. The pressure to be anthropomorphic, sage-like, when, really, I just want to be silly. 

I decided recently that I do not want to be a Strong Black Woman. Or a Baddie. Or a Queen. I actually just want to be a little girl. To be who I was before I learned of glass ceilings or found myself shredded by their shards, before I felt the touch of any man, touches that produced both bruises and moans, before I experienced the vertigo caused by a grumbling tummy before bed and right after waking, before I scraped my forehead trying to mimic the edges of the lighter-skinned girl my crush liked, before I figured out that there was a man in the sky making my mother and her mothers and your mothers feel like they weren’t doing things right. 

Silly girls are loved, not because they are intelligent, resilient, groundbreaking, obedient, rebellious, productive, or cycle-breaking. Silly girls are loved because they are.

Introduction by Aimée Mehala