I don’t want you you to just be happy
Because then you have to have something happening
I want you to have joy
Because can’t nobody take that from you

Kirk Franklin, I smile, 2011

In her foreword, Charlie Brinkhurst-Cuff puts it like this; “Joy doesn’t have to be contingent upon anything but existence”. The essays in this book perfectly embody these sentiments. One of my favourite things about this book are the forewords. They regularly and intentionally speak to Black people. It is a constant reminder that this book is for us and by us, word to Solange. That in itself is an example of Black joy – having something that only we can relate to, as if we’re a part of some exclusive club that is hidden to the outside world. 

The essays written provide a beautiful insight into the depths of the authors. They allow us into their worlds, sharing the highs and lows of their lives. Everyone reading will recognise at least one name, someone they may have seen on tv, listened to on the radio, or simply just enjoyed scrolling through their content on whatever TL. However you may recognise them, reading their essay provides an insight into their lives you may not have had access to before. And the best part of it all? It’s relatable. We’ve all been Black in the workplace like Munya, or watched a music video that spoke to the deepest depths of our soul like Travis. We have all experienced some form of Black joy, even if we weren’t quite able to put a name to the feeling. The essays in this book perfectly illustrated my personal feelings around Black joy, the all-encompassing feeling of participating in activity specific to the Black experience. The duality of being Black British (hm) and being a child of the diaspora, how both of those identities provide different iterations of Black joy, but can also combine deliciously as demonstrated in Isaac’s essay about Carnival (I’m gonna talk more about that later). 

Often it is hard to talk about Blackness (while living in Britain) outside of the context of whiteness. When we speak about being Black and our experiences, even the positive ones, it almost always involves us relaying it as a response to negativity, to microaggressions and racism. Very rarely are we afforded the luxury of just being Black. Whilst some essays in this book inevitably do mention those issues, they are not the main focus. It is clear that the authors have taken time to truly reflect on their racial identities and what it means to them personally. If the topic of racism comes up then cool, but the authors demonstrate that they are more than just their proximity to whiteness.     

The ‘find your own joy’ boxes at the end of each essay are a great addition. Black Joy is an act of racial wellness, a way to reaffirm our racial identities and guard ourselves against any negative outside influences. Often we get so caught up in the mundanity (that doesn’t feel like a real word but I googled it) of life that we don’t actively participate in Black joy, and so those little boxes provide helpful suggestions for those who don’t know where to start

My favourite essays;

Isaac James: Okay so I’ve been a fan of Isaac for a few years now (via twitter) and so seeing his name pop up in the book brought me joy because I knew the essay would be amazing, and I wasn’t disappointed! To know me is to know my love for mas, and Isaac captured it perfectly. Many don’t know the true origins of carnivals, how they were started by enslaved Africans mocking their captors, one of the first documentations of rebellion and revelry. Carnival in the Caribbean was and still is the epitome of Black joy. Carnival is the perfect expression of freedom, and Isaac’s depiction explains it so well. He was able to perfectly articulate the full sensory experience. There is a well-known saying – ‘Carnival is woman’, and while I don’t disagree (girl power and all that jazz), I enjoyed reading about the carnival experience from a male perspective. 

Melz Owusu: For my dissertation I wrote about people in the diaspora’s connections to ‘home’, it mainly focused on carnival but the idea was that Black people find ways to help them to connect to the places they consider to be home, even if they’d never actually been there. I’d never considered the countryside here as being a form of connection to ‘home’ but it makes so much sense. Our ancestral lands were mostly country, cities are a new phenomena. For those who have lived in big cities their whole lives, going to the countryside often provides a reprieve. An overwhelming feeling of peace. Melz introduced me to the possibility of a deeper meaning. And she’s right. We’ve all seen how expensive flights to Africa and the Caribbean are, going home isn’t that simple of a task, therefore it is important that we find alternatives closer to home. 

Diane Abbott: This essay was the most relatable for me. Aunty Di told tales of her trips to Jamaica as a child and how racially reaffirming they were and I completely get it. I remember the first time I went to the Caribbean, Barbados to be precise, and I was in awe. Landing in a place where you are no longer the minority. Where the customs and cultures you practise in the privacy of your home are part of everyday life. It’s a feeling of cultural safety. It’s as if I had written the essay myself, it so perfectly captured my thoughts and feelings.

Really and truly I could write about every essay. There truly is a message in there for everyone. Something we can all relate to, something that makes us reminisce about our past or adjust plans for our futures. Of course there were some essays that I enjoyed more than others, because of the subject matter or just the level of relatability. However, I am grateful for everyone’s vulnerability.

Reading this made me reflect on what brings me Black Joy. I have spent the last few years working with children in different capacities, and a good 95% of them were Black. The joy working with Black children brings me is unmatched. Providing a safe space for them to be themselves freely and wholeheartedly. Showing them that they have an adult that they can relate to. Standing at the back of an assembly on the first day of term, looking at their fresh hairstyles. Teaching the girls how to tie their headwraps like me on days they just can’t be bothered to style it. Raising an eyebrow when they get to the part of a dancehall song that really has no place in the school playground (or anywhere when coming from the lips of a child). I love it all! Those are the moments that bring me my Black Joy, the intergenerational Black experience – I sound so old. 

My final thought: Haaniyah Angus if you ever happen to see this. I NEED you to create Al’akhawat. The storyline was captivating and your professor was a moron for not seeing its genius!