Maybe I'm Wrong to Desire the Universe
Nicole Yvonne Lovett


Maybe I’m wrong to desire the universe, but,

I want a fault in our stars starring a girl who has kinky hair and listens to La Dispute. I want her to read Rookie, regularly, on the daily, like I do.

I don’t want her to fall into said person she will fall in love with—well, I do, but I don’t want the fault of their stars to be ketchup on the floor while he’s screaming and throwing things at her loud real loud when he tells her to turn down the music I want him to not be aggressive to it because he’ll know that La Dispute saved her life once and it still does. I want the boy to be kind.

When people see the movie I don’t want them to call it a black film, or rather, simply reducing it to those words: a black film, because we don’t call Hollywood a white production that produces white movies, whities playing natives and black people and Mexicans no I want them to see the love between the black boy and girl, kinky hair, imperfections, tears and laughter.
Let their difference enhance them, let this impossibility deemed by many be known 

It is real.

If it is possible, I want a fault to be found before she meets this person she will fall for; something startling her into the realization that she does not live for anyone else.
It would not matter if this someone else were incredibly beautiful, handsome, charming, funny, trustworthy, and all the other traits that one would wish someone to have to share the rest of their eternity with—she did not live for anyone else—that, without a person to cuddle her, tell her she was beautiful, someone to talk to at 3 a.m. or reach an orgasm with around the same time—that she was enough, make her realize that without anyone giving her the a-okay, she is enough.

Do this for me: Make a masterpiece about a girl who managed to salvage her own life, with the kinky hair, who obsessed over potential lovers so much that she forgot what she was doing, how her dreams looked without them—broken promises that never truly been formed into what you would call a galaxy—do it for the brown teenagers, a good story, a few life-changing moments in someone who least expects it.
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Do it for the ones that sit mindlessly in the shadows: black girls are not weighty armor, or incredibly other—the rainbow is not always apparent—we get sick. We commit suicide too.
 
 
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