The thoughtful and inspiring new book “Black Love Letters,” by Cole Brown and Natalie Johnson is an extraordinary read. Brown, a seasonal Vineyarder, met Johnson when they were summering here as kids. While conceived when the world was in a dark place, this handsome collection of letters and original illustrations powerfully celebrates blackness in all its forms.
During the summer of 2020, Johnson was seeking some kind of solace as the COVID pandemic was changing life as we knew it, and protests against the unthinkable murder of George Floyd by police and the ongoing violence against Black people filled the streets. She turned to bell hooks’ seminal text, “All About Love,” and was struck by these lines: “Only love can heal the wounds of the past. However, the intensity of our woundedness often leads to a closing of the heart, making it impossible for us to give or receive the love that is given to us.”
In response, as the introduction tells us, Johnson sought collective healing, a place to come together on the deepest, strongest emotion we share — that of love. She reached out to Brown, and together, they discovered that “communal pain provides the possibility for shared deliverance — the possibility to carve out a space for healing, together … Black Love has always been defined by its devotion, care, and intimacy, but also its resistance, its unwavering ability to persist in a world that would rather quash it.”
The pair reached out to activists, statesmen, writers, artists, poets, and creators to reflect on what it means to be Black, to love, and to be loved in America. The pieces are short, just a few pages long. Johnson added a related black silhouette illustration for each, enhancing this small, handsome book.
The range of love letters is fascinating. You have those to a gramma, uncle, sibling, friend, spouse, and children, but also to Black hair, a young Michael Jackson, jazz, and one to Black Love itself.
“To Dimples,” by Joel Castón, a former prisoner, writes to the person who was his pen pal: “I never knew love like this before. I marvel at the strength you had to care for someone you had only first met through letters. The impression of the ink of your pen told a story. The intonation of your penmanship spoke in your stead. The smiley faces that you drew were my kisses.”
Some of the letters are poems, such as Akili King’s “Letter to My Unborn Niece,” with a first stanza that compels you to read on to see where she goes with it:
I already know I have a new best friend.
You’ve already made me want to be better, and you haven’t
Said a word.
That’s how I know you are going to be powerful.
Allisa Charles-Findley writes to her dead brother, who was murdered in 2018 by an off-duty Dallas Police officer who entered his apartment and fatally shot him: “What can I say to you, my baby brother, my friend, my person? All I know is it has been four years, four months, and two days since I last heard your voice, since I last heard your laugh, since I last felt whole … You were the glue that held our family together … We are still trying to figure out how to make it through this life without you, but because of who you were, we will do you proud … My baby brother, visit me often in my dreams. Do not be a stranger.”
Morgan Jerkins, in “Dear Egypt,” writes of finally taking the trip to a land she had dreamed of since she was a kid at a time of crisis in her life. At the end, she says, “I am glad that I satisfied my decades-long curiosity of you. I’m glad I never have to wonder if you are really as good as the white men who wrote about you said you were. You are better. Because I got to experience you for me and only me.”
There is a beautiful tribute to Justice Marshall, who inspired Ben Crump to follow in his footsteps and fight against state violence: “The struggle is my calling, just as it was yours … The struggle is all that’s guaranteed — like a car requires friction to start, progress demands struggle. That’s why I orient myself toward struggle. I don’t pray for easier times; I pray for stronger children. I pray that I can do for them what you did for me — light a path forward, show them the pleasure and power of struggle.”
Perhaps one of my favorites is Jenna Wortham’s “Dear Inner Critic,” which gracefully says goodbye to the no-longer-useful aspect of herself: “Thank you for all that you have done to protect me from being harmed in the world. It took me a while to recognize you; even longer to understand that, though your words ring loudly in my head, they are not the truth … I no longer draw power from being the first to point out my mistakes, momentary shortcomings, bouts of forgetfulness. I am no longer under the illusion that it is productive to tear myself down, that it keeps me from making mistakes in the future … I no longer need to punish myself. I am worthy of love; I am worthy of my life … Thank you for everything. Your work is done.”
There are passages in each worth quoting, and as varied as the letters are, every one of them is tender and honest, making for extraordinary reading, whether you read “Black Love Letters” from front to back in a single sitting or pick ones at random on any given day.
“Black Love Letters,” by Cole Brown and Natalie Johnson. Available at Edgartown Books and Bunch of Grapes.
