ABSTRACT
I remember the heat of the sun, as it radiated up my body from my toes to the tips of my braids. I remember how its warmth, along with the warmth of my grandmother’s voice, made me feel secure, safe, and at peace. Most importantly, I remember the laughter that exploded from our souls, filling in the gaps between her world and mine, until our sides ached. And I remember the “talks” that happened on my Grandmother’s porch on those hot summer days and how the cool breeze seemed to relieve us in moments of sweltering conversation, as she tried to slowly assimilate me into her world of the harsh realities of being Black and woman and Christian. My memory always reflects on the eerie expression of fear, love, and sadness that became her face as she watched my childhood innocence fade into the sunset—talk by talk and year by year. These talks that I had with both sets of my grandparents, who had survived raising their children in the Jim Crow South and childhood memories of the Ku Klux Klan, will be cherished forever. The wisdom imparted upon me was and still serves as vital instructions on how to navigate this world as a Black Christian Heterosexual Woman. Despite how problematic or repressive the advice may seem in this contemporary society, I understand and value it because it was rooted in efforts to ensure my survival; they were all too familiar with the banality in the erasure of the black body in the patriarchal, white supremacist world in which we exist.
