My name is Liana Wallace. I’m a Black woman, and I called my maternal grandmother Mimi.

My mother’s life and mine draw water from dissonance — Mimi didn’t care much for rules. She was a  Jew who celebrated Christmas and a close friend to Black women like Sandra Donaldson and Mopsy Edwards during high school in the 60s, who would later come over on Sundays to help braid my mother’s hair. She wasn’t afraid to call people what they were. Bigot. Homophobe. Schmuck. 

Before she passed away, she told me not to be scared anymore — to do what frees me. So Mimi, the pretty little lady you see over to the right, is why I write. She’s why I don’t feel silly when attempting to type. This space is for all of us. Come as you are.