Contributor: Vanessa Clinton
Dear Black Summer Joy,
You arrive like a song we’ve known our whole lives—the bassline deep and familiar, the melody bright as the sun kissing our melanated skin. We slip right into your groove by tossing a snap, a smile, and a strategically placed “Ayyyyeee.” We find your rhythm like it’s been waiting for us since the groundhog saw his shadow. As you wrap us in your warmth, you remind us: we belong here.
Black Summer Joy, you out here smelling like ribs, Grandaddy’s burgers, and hotdogs cooking on the grill. You season the air with collard greens simmering in Grandma’s kitchen, too sweet tea in a glass pitcher, and purple Koolaid sweating in red solo cups. You live in the beat of double-dutch ropes swinging to a song, and the sizzle of a sidewalk with freshly drawn hopscotch squares. You are laughter that floats to the clouds, echoing from porches, parks, and block parties—where someone’s uncle is two-stepping with a paper plate in one hand and seasoned legacy in the other. Black Summer Joy, you show out with Grandmas, mamas, and aunties in wide-brimmed hats wearing matching sundresses and sandals, fanning themselves like royalty with family reunions flyers.
You are babies with beads in their hair, the rhythmic click-clack keeping time with joy. You are locs catching the light, edges laid with care, fresh fades, and braids swinging to the beat of Frankie Beverly & Maze or Megan Thee Stallion—because in your presence, every vibe is valid.
Black Summer Joy, you are our language, fluid and unfiltered, where "ion know" “I see you” “Mama-nem” and "you good?" speak volumes. Black Summer Joy, you are the sacred place where we code-switch off, not to be understood by others, but to be fully seen by our own. You’re the safety in side-eyes that say “you see this?” and the laughter that erupts before the punchline lands.
You are cookouts where the DJ knows just when to drop the line dance, where cousins feel like siblings, and the electric slide becomes an ancestral initiation and rite of passage. You are folding chairs and shade tents, day ones sliding you a second plate, and the unspoken rule about who brings the potato salad.
Black Summer Joy, you are Juneteenth flags flying high, the sacred beat of the drumline at NCCU homecoming, and the unshakable sway of hips moving to rhythms carried across oceans. You are freedom ringing in our bones, resilience danced into pavement, and rest—a revolutionary act in your presence.
Black Summer Joy, you are the sweet voice of our elders, seasoned with gospel, grief, and no-nonsense grace. You are the sound of prayers and praise whispered over the family bible that has been passed down for generations, full of births, baptisms, and baby hair. You are the feeling of smooth, wrinkled hands clasped warmly around our faces and the faces of our babies.
Black Summer Joy, you are the golden hour against brown skin, a halo of heat and history, celebration and survival. You are what happens when we gather without fear, when we are allowed to be. You are proof that joy is not a luxury—it is our legacy. Our inheritance. Our right.
Black Summer Joy, you are the softness in our strength, the rhythm in our resistance, the beauty in just being us.
And we love you deeply, loudly, proudly.
Forever basking in you,
A Heart Full of Black Joy