Bibi. 
Bibi yangu.
My Grandmother. Her Tree. 

Bibi’s tree is yet to be a tree . . . but it is a tree to me.

A plant that is supposed to reach her God. 
A plant that we water, so it grows. 
A plant that we pray over hoping it protects her. 

Even if it never reaches even two ft tall.
It is a tree to me. 

The word plant isn’t enough.
A plant is so fragile. 
A plant is not worth the faith we have in its protection. 
A plant will whither. While a tree will thrive. 

A tree will keep growing towards her God. 
A tree will surpass the limits of the grave it's planted in. 
A tree signifies my Bibi much more than any plant could. 

My Bibi’s name was Salma. Peace.
Her name, just like her tree, means peace. Means safety. Means security. 

When I think of her tree, that is what her tree is to me. 

MiC Columnist Iman Jamison can be reached at ijamison@umich.edu.

The post Bibi’s Tree appeared first on The Michigan Daily.

To be Black and in love.
To be Black and to love love

Infatuation.
I remember the first boy to like me.
Brown hair, brown eyes.
Middle school crush with an infatuation.
A fascination
With me.
My existence, not my being.

Admiration.
I remember the first boy I liked.
Brown skin, hazel eyes.
Warm admiration of a Black girl with braces.
Short glances and inescapable heartache.
Passé and naïveté.
Immaturity and insecurity.
Admiration spoken too soon.

Adoration.
I remember my first time.
Deep love.
Deep respect.
Till adoration turned into passion without veneration.
Till love turns into lust.
Lust for the exotic.
Desire for my thighs not fully formed.
My Mama’s hips passed down.
My body, not my soul. 
My frame, not the mind within it.

Devotion.
I remember my first love.
I remember the first boy who loved me.
Simultaneous warmth given to one another.
Steadfast fall into irresistible comfort.
Like walking with full faith in the path’s direction.
Like traveling with no care for the destination.

“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
My devotion.
My love, loyalty, and languish.
Languish.
Foolishness.

“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
Till they don’t.
Till you’re too loud for their ears.
Too wide for their hands.
Too impatient for their disregard.

“Beautiful black woman, I love you”
I wish to hear those words.
Longing for those words.
Dreading those words.
And the hidden trap door beneath them.

So I say to Valentine's Day.

MiC Columnist Iman Jamison can be reached at ijamison@umich.edu.

The post To Be Black and In Love: A post Valentine’s Day reflection appeared first on The Michigan Daily.