Adiba Nelson

He opened his mouth and time stood still. My pulse quickened. My heart raced. My eyes filled with tears. And I. WAS. PROUD.

Black women were branded as sexually promiscuous and immoral, which in turn was used as justification for sexual trauma/rape.

This book is real, folks. As well it should be –– it was written by one of the realest women on the planet.

"I will peer relentlessly into every cop car I pass with a young black man in it, stretching my neck to make sure that it’s not my son who’s been arrested for driving while black, walking while black, or breathing while black. I will hold my breath while listening to every news report of another black man that has been arrested, beaten, killed, and made an example of."

It is made up of women that I've known since I was 8, and women I met last week.

How do you go from two extremely different individuals living life separately to two extremely different individuals merging their separate lives into one loving family portrait — all while avoiding a cosmic meltdown? Very, very carefully. And with a bottle of wine… or 50.

That man shakes me to my core. Actually, not HIM, per se, but the people who blindly follow him. The out-and-out bigots who will call me the N-word just as easily as they’d call their buddy “Bob.” The people who SWEAR they're not bigots, but support him because they believe in his promise of new jobs and deportations.

Then we had that talk that made my eye twitch: the budget talk.

There wasn’t going to be any sparkle. There wasn’t going to be any new mommy magic.

Shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get so sassy right now.