I go back and forth from tears and numbness to sporadic bursts of energy and rage, the former always outlasting the latter. I'm flooded with memories of racist confrontations and violent flashes of murder on television and in photos, knowing that I grew up with more imagery of tortured black bodies than of celebrated ones. It's in this space that I feel lost and hopeless… Baldwin said artists are here to disturb the peace, so I think of ways to disturb, to disrupt this place with something creative, but I cry once again and feel numb. Somewhere in between the grief and the rage, I make the time to act, to contribute somehow until those emotions have their way once more. I know it will take some time. It always does… I took this photo a few years ago. These are my nephews. They are perfect. Two black bodies, asleep, lovingly resting on each other, forever holding each other up. Perfect. They have a beautiful mother who is smart, compassionate, resilient, and is endlessly celebrating their life... This is the image I focus on. These are the black bodies I will show my children. This is what will help me disturb the peace.