I attended the Mississippi Book Festival last weekend. It was a pleasure catching up with friends new and old, and as the day concluded, one of my new friends was having a reunion with two cousins she had not seen in decades. They eased into stories and called nicknames like no time had passed. After a while, I thought it appropriate to give them a private chance to catch up. I thanked them for the privilege of bearing witness to this special moment. Before I left them, the eldest cousin stopped me to say that my spirit radiates light. Though it was not my family reunion to share, her words left a lasting impression on my heart.
I count four times in my life when God wasn’t through with me yet. The particulars aren’t important, and there are probably more instances I know nothing about. What saved me on those four occasions was prayer, pot liquor, medical treatment, and my mama’s rifle, though not in that order. But in these moments, someone had pinned a value on my life and deemed it inconsequential by their estimation.
By their estimation.
But my life is wide as all outside. It is voluptuous with spirit and overflowing with light. I love my family and friends though I don’t get to see them or talk to them nearly enough. I am blessed and honored that Moonrise Over New Jessup continues to find its way into the world, highlighting the beauty of big, beautiful, Black lives in Alabama. I value every second of my time because I am consequential to me.
Meaning no harm—and certainly no offense is taken—some have deemed Moonrise Over New Jessup a “quiet” book. New Jessup follows Alice Young as she uses the light inside her to become the moonrise for her family and her community. Perhaps the “quiet” designation is meant as a signal to other readers that this book does not center Black trauma. I understand that impulse. But here’s a thought:
What if we all live big lives in different ways?
The quiet moments are often the most profound. The wideness of infinite possibility exists in silence undisturbed by screens and tweets or Xs or posts or threads or work or whatever demands our time. This is not a lament about criticism, literary or otherwise—I am the firmest believer that everything ain’t for everybody. That goes for me and my book. But I know that Moonrise Over New Jessup tells a special story of Alice’s big life. And I know that my life is substantial because I have light to share.
But “quiet” rings of smallness by comparison to another thing. And this comparison bears examination. Toni Morrison once said, “If you can only be tall because someone else is on their knees, you have a serious problem.” So I question why someone must be considered “quiet” for another to be considered “loud” or “consequential” or whatever contrasts “quiet”? Why must we exist in relation when we are individuals fingerprinted with unique gifts and talents? What if, instead of comparing ourselves to one another, we allowed our light to shine through, and encouraged others to do the same?
Life should be wide as all outside to the person living it. Regardless of what anybody else thinks. No next breath is guaranteed, and we only enjoy a precious slice of eternity on this earth. Life for me sure ain’t been no crystal stair. I had dreams that will never come to fruition—no way I’ll be arguing before the Supreme Court, or dancing for Alvin Ailey or, perhaps, even understanding what makes the sky above me so blue. But my big life overflows with light and love to share for, and with, my community. And that feels immense to me.
Sharing light takes honesty and honesty is risk. Sometimes the light I share is misinterpreted or unrequited. (I once told a guy I was really crushing on that he was a treasure. We had recently met, and I believe he thought I was calling him my treasure when I really wanted him to see for himself that he was a treasure, and, well…) But I am full of love and spirit and creativity. No, I won’t be the one to solve the climate crisis. But maybe one day, my light will have touched someone who will.
I share my light when I write. I share my light when I say, “Okay, purple shoes!” to my good sister whose sneaks are everything. I share my light by praying for people, cooking for people, and in ways I’ll never know because someone walked away from me feeling uplifted somehow.
I have feelings just like anybody else, and I am not immune to anti-Blackness, misogynoir, hate in my email and DMs, et al. But I know who I am and what I carry inside me. I’m born of generations, baby—born for the skin I’m in because it contains all that is in me for living my big life.