“Não quero ser compreendida, quero ser amada, respondi ao estudante de olhos asiáticos que se queixava, não entendeu o sentido de alguns dos meus contos. Ninguém compreende mesmo ninguém, difíceis as pessoas. As coisas. Quero apenas que meu leitor seja o meu parceiro e cúmplice no ato criador que é ansiedade e sofrimento. Busca e celebração.”

Elas, as poesias, conversavam com alguma coisa que eu tinha dentro de mim e proporcionavam a mesma felicidade que eu sentia ao ouvir orikis, embora nem sempre fossem alegres, como não era a grande maioria. Mas, mesmo sendo tristes, eu as sentia, e era isso que me deixava feliz.

We have to consciously study how to be tender with each other until it becomes a habit because what was native was stolen from us, the love of Black women for each other. But we can practice being gentle with each other by being gentle with that piece of ourselves that is hardest to hold, by giving more to the brave bruised girlchild within each of us, by expecting a little less from her gargantuan efforts to excel. We can love her in the light as well as in the darkness, quiet her frenzy towards perfection and encourage her attentions towards fulfillment... As we arm ourselves with ourselves and each other, we can stand toe to toe inside that rigorous loving and begin to speak the impossible—or what has always seemed like the impossible—to one another. The first step towards genuine change. Eventually, if we speak the truth to each other, it will become unavoidable to ourselves.