Black Futures Matter: Black Imagination as a Form of Resistance

Mostly, what I have learned so far about aging, despite the creakiness of one's bones and cragginess of one's once-silken skin, is this: Do it. By all means, do it.

 - Maya Angelou

The first time I read Dr. Maya Angelou’s Even The Stars Look Lonesome I felt an overwhelming sense of relief when I came across the first page of the third chapter, titled “Aging.” I was freshly twenty, working at a call centre that made me want to cry and cuss from the start of my shift to the end, flipping through the book’s pages, and as if she was speaking directly to me, she said:

In the crisp days of my youth whenever I was asked what I thought about growing old, I always responded with a nervous but brassy rejoinder that hid my profound belief that I never expected to live past twenty-eight. Tears would fill my eyes and bathe my face when I thought of dying before my son reached puberty. I was thirty-six before I realized I had lived years beyond my deadline and needed to revise my thinking about an early death. I would live to see my son an adult and myself the half-century mark

The words spoke so loudly to me because I realized, possibly for the first time, that my thoughts on an early death weren’t unique. Not only had I not expected to live a long life, but I accepted it as my unavoidable fate. Now, almost nine years later (the same age Dr. Angelou expected she'd have reached her expiration date,) I look at the calendar, noticing my 29th birthday quickly approaching, and realize, I’m still here. Unlike I expected.

My assumption that I would have reached the sunset of my life by now may sound pessimistic and morbid, but in my mind, it only made sense. My biggest artistic inspiration, Tupac, died at twenty-five. Both of my parents’ moms were killed while my parents were teenagers. In high school, my seemingly healthy friend went to sleep and simply did not wake up at age fourteen (rest in peace Shak). Jimi Hendrix, another personal favourite, died at age twenty-seven. Bob Marley, a legend in every sense of the word, tragically left behind his fans and his family at age thirty-six.  My dear friend, whose birthday is just one day away from mine, died unexpectedly at age 24 (rest in peace Eli). For as long as I can remember, I have been overly aware of the uncertainty and fragility of my existence, because it's never been discreet. 

For many Black folks, it’s hard to imagine arriving at old age because it doesn't seem tangible. And understandably so. For those of us on Turtle Island (colonially known as North America) we’re bombarded with statistics of our life expectancies being shorter, our chances of health complications being higher, our experiences of anti-Black violence being normalized as part of the “Black experience.” We are regularly grieving our favourite artists, thinkers, educators, and athletes who’ve died at unreasonably young ages. And when we aren’t being reminded of the many possibilities for our literal deaths, we’re reminded of the endless other ways our lives can be cut short; through the carceral system, poverty, lack of access to resources, lack of care and respect and decency at every corner we turn- both individually and systemically. The things that kill us slowly and psychologically. The lives and dreams that we’re forced to bury due to circumstances resulted from anti-Black institutions operating exactly how they were created to. 

Yet, here I am. And like Dr. Angelou, I, too, am now inclined to approach life with a fresh, very much alive, set of eyes. I'm facing the reality that the future I once couldn't imagine with any real clarity is what I'm currently living in. And, at last, I’ve given myself permission to imagine beyond this. I decided that self-preservation and imagination are forms of resistance for me. They are acts of radical self-love; affirming that my life, my future, matters. As a Black, queer woman, I know all too well that my very existence isn't deemed valuable to some, so emphasizing that it’s important to me, feels like a reclaiming of space. Pouring into myself with the expectation that the future me will thank me for it is refreshing. It brings me back to a childlike sense of wonder and curiosity for life that is limitless and not scarred by this world’s sharp edges. It makes me excited about the privilege of aging; an opportunity denied to many. And it makes me want more of it.

That longing to age may be surprising to hear since the media we consume has always punished women for aging. I see the effects of that every day, especially on social media, and I wonder how much it has to do with white privilege. The privilege being that white folks generally believe that they will live long enough to hate the changes to their bodies that aging will bring. I watch white women on social media gag at the site of wrinkles on their faces while using old-age face filters on TikTok; desperately seeking advice for skin care routines and botox options in an attempt to hide the proof of growing older. Meanwhile, my lover and I repeatedly watch videos of us using the same face filter, with our older selves reflected back to us on the screen, teary-eyed and filled with hope that we could someday witness this reality of entering elderhood. I tell him how I believe, wholeheartedly, that I’ll be in my prime in my sixties. He talks excitedly about how long the locs on his head and beard will be by that point, and how he’ll proudly flaunt the well-earned strokes of gray that will inevitably paint them.

I often imagine my nieces and nephews and Godchildren having me around long enough to experience them as teenagers and adults. To see Macari’s first homecoming and Rylie’s first time sneaking out the house and Jordan’s first driving lesson and Hendrix’s first job and Tiago’s first heartbreak. And if, by chance, I’m not there, I hope they read this and know that I had every intention to be. And that while I can’t control my fate, my ability to imagine a future full of life is still powerful and important. I want them to know that I lived with purpose and plans and that they were part of them. I want them to know that I imagined my life as bigger than me. And that my ability to imagine something greater than today, is what has brought me to all of the best moments of my life.

So, I wonder if, for all this time, we've gone about it completely wrong. We’ve been told to treat today like our last. To live like there’s no tomorrow. Well, I challenge us to live like there is. To live like we’re going to be here for a while. Make big plans. Open a pension account. Pick out names for our kids. Make decisions that future versions of ourselves can be proud of.

I’m not saying to not be present or enjoy the now, because there very well may not be a tomorrow, but I challenge us to let our minds wander to their most unexplored places, and just imagine that there will be.