Still, my views are not rooted merely in this disillusionment: They are rooted, instead, in a deep and abiding love for black people. And what our existence in the world—among each other and our families and our friends—makes possible. And so I write this as a love letter to us. I don’t want another black President because I don’t want us to give ourselves over to a country that has shown itself, over and over and over again, as unworthy. As deeply and fundamentally undeserving of our radical love, perpetual commitment, and astonishing optimism. And, today, this mantra—I don’t want another black President—feels like protection. Survivance. Like maintaining the possibility for something else, for us.

Maybe there are better, more balanced, ways of doing life. But also maybe this is the way that fills our cup. That makes us feel useful and connected and good. I’ve watched you be all of those things for so many years. For so many people. It’s no wonder that your way of being in the world has become my own. Or at least how I hope to be.

So, I think, at a different time, I would have told him that I did not know who Teyana Taylor was. And I would have steeled myself, as I always do, for the inquisition that follows when you are black but have failed at blackness.

I, too, don’t quite know what love is. But I know that this weekend – in all of its rigor and thoughtfulness, reverence and imagination – felt something like it. Love. Who knew I’d find it here.

You were never one to give us some activity to keep us busy, and to leave the room.

You were always right in the middle of it. Making memories with us. Letting us know how deeply you loved being our Grandma.

I could find very little else in all of my scouring, which left Baldwin’s question hanging there like something of a refrain: “Whose little boy are you?”