top of page
Dancing Hands


Welcome to my creative space where I commit to sharing regularly emotional, didactic, and inspirational reflections about growing up a blck girl. A Southern, blck girl living in the 70’s and 80’s before the advent of cellphones. social media accounts and the internet. I have been an aunt for most of my life. Aunt serve  adjacent to mothers and grandmothers, and are special women who sometimes become surrogate mothers. It has been my aunts who aided in putting the pieces together, sharing the stories my parents didn't or wouldn't tell. We go to those aunts. 


Birthed out of the death of my sister who died from COVID-19, leaving behind four daughters, this space is my elegy. This space is my open letter to all my nieces, there are 11. I only have been in the life of four of them with any regularity. The others I have never met. Nonetheless, I believe being an aunt is important even if it is in this public space providing some stories as a surrogate aunt to you. It is in this space I desire to say those things, offer those stories, provide reflections for you on your journey however, it may aid you.


Since my sister's transition, I found solace in remembering our past, exposing hidden wounds by giving voice to memories that needed healing. So here you will find a cornucopia of stories and poems about surviving domestic violence, understanding sexual orientation, having sex, getting pregnant, and attending school curated in this space.  I invite you to come across the threshold through the doorway into my emotional memories and celebrate my survival while remembering your own stories, victories and provide you with an invitation to heal. Despite the past, I desire that every woman that comes here will find courage to heal.

The stories and poems contained in this website is copyright material. No part or whole of stories or poems are to be used without expressed permissions of the writers. Use of works without permission is a violation of copyright laws and copyright infringement will be enforced according to the laws.



teacher. scribe. poet.

I teach mostly college courses, but I believe I can teach anything I'm passionate about. Teaching is a calling and I enjoy seeing students learn, grow, and evolve into people they often did not think possible.


However, when I am not teaching I am writing something whether in a journal, on a napkin, a grocery receipt or peeking away on the computer keys. In one or two seatings, I can write the ink completely out of a pen. I have journals all around me to captures my thoughts and musings. Poetry is a new love I found later in life like a serendipitous lover. This surprising way to use language to capture emotions, a story etc.


 As a young girl, under the covers at night, I read. I promised myself that one day writing would be my contribution, my legacy to this life. I needed to write stories. I loved stories whether orally shared by the elders, a book, television or movie. I've written intermittently a few things throughout my life. Hence, I think I needed to curate more fodder from living a little longer. The death of my sister from COVID-19 was the impetus for the urgency of this space. 


DISCLAIMER - The creations contained herein are curated from my memory. There is only one perspective being presented; therefore, there is no claim that the stories are the whole truth or complete truth of any event, person, or timeframe. Pronouns are used or names are changed to protect the anonymity of the individuals represented in the writer’s memory excavation. No advice is to be taken from these blogs to serve as professional or medical advice. Individuals should consult with their appropriate professional for medical and mental health services that may arise from the material contained within these pages.

Relaxing Outdoor

No Black woman writer in this culture can write too much.
bell hooks

bottom of page