Sensitivity warning: This essay includes references to child death, sexual violence, and abuse. If you are someone you love needs help, please click here for resources.

Introduction

Na'Ziyah Harris disappeared on January 9, 2024. She was 13 years old. The circumstances surrounding her short life speak to a lack of care and protection at multiple levels. Her aunt's partner stands charged with first-degree premeditated murder and second-degree criminal sexual conduct in Na'Ziyah's case. Text messages reveal that this man, her "uncle," was involved in an inappropriate relationship with her.

This case, like so many others, breaks me open. Who will protect little Black girls?

I wrote this letter to Na'Ziyah because I wanted some part of her, even if it's just her spirit, to know how much more she deserved from this world. As of the date of publication, her body has not been recovered, which, for me, adds an extra tinge of grief. I think of this baby's soul as being unsettled, and all that conjures in my understanding of the necessity of a peaceful spirit both in life and death.

I hope we become fiercer protectors of the little girls we still have time to rescue.

Dear Na'Ziyah,

Today, I was in a class at Stanford University and thought of you. Stanford is far from the place we both called home, Detroit. It's hard to be away from home. Our reasons for being away are very different. I had the choice to leave and keep living, but you, my love, were violently separated from every form of home you knew.

You must be wondering why a stranger was thinking of you in class on a random Tuesday a year after your disappearance. Na'Ziyah, your life was so short. When this happens, those of us who have lived longer are left with aching hearts and burning questions. We seek understanding of what darkness limits us from understanding. Who can understand anything in the dark? The last picture taken of you was in a classroom. It appears you took it—a selfie queen! There you were, smiling, glasses adorning your beautiful face. You looked like so many 13-year-old Black girls I've known, including myself (though I was 13 long before the era of classroom selfies). When I saw you in that classroom, I wondered what you learned that day, if you liked school, and if you felt safe there, unlike other places.

In my classroom, over 2,000 miles from Detroit, we talked about love—what it is and how we define it. What might your answer have been? Did you experience love—as a noun, a verb, or both? Perhaps that distinction was a part of your English class. Were you, like many of us, searching for the warmth of love? Can I confess something to you? I often sought love in places that meant me no good. It took years and resources to unlearn this behavior. I wish you had been given that same chance.

I see myself in many little Black girls who come into this world with complex narratives, born to parents who are only partially or completely unequipped to take on the job of raising us on their own. I know how deeply lonely it can be to look around and see others living what seems to be a normal life, especially to young eyes. I know how much it hurts to have the people who are supposed to love you most present a version of parenthood smaller than what our large hearts need. My mom had to give me to my grandparents when I was a little girl, just like you. The difference between me and you, Na’Ziyah, is not the presence of abandonment but the strength of the nets that caught us and, in my case, also my mother, allowing her to find the space to become the mother she was always called to be in the ways she was capable. A village raised me from the ocean that could have drowned me. You, sweetheart, needed a much stronger village. A village that would place your care at the top of its priorities. We sometimes learn to blame ourselves, and in doing this, we become an internal village of one, using our inner worlds to navigate feelings and despair that are much too complex for young minds and hearts to navigate alone. A question I've long struggled with is: who will love Black women and girls fully, safely, in ways that heal and protect us from the darkness of lovelessness?

We also discussed the difference between gut knowledge—the inner voice warning us—and heart desires. That little voice tries to keep us safe, though we may not always recognize it. Age and experience help us listen to our gut. You didn’t get that gift. It was stolen from you.

The heart, though—oh, the heart. I’d say more about its power and absolute foolishness if you were older. I’d talk to you as I do my goddaughter, nearly twenty, about distinguishing between gut knowledge and heart desire, which can be crucial for our safety. Perhaps you heard adults say, "The heart wants what it wants." Sometimes, the heart can lead us away from true love. Isn't that ironic? In its deficiency, the heart may chase even a faint semblance of love, hoping to feel its magic. Not all magic is good; some are pure evil. I wish I could've shared this with you, and been a part of your village, your safety net. You deserved so much more than this life provided.

I write this with tears streaming down my face, mourning for you, for the possibility of you. If life is fair at all, you are somewhere better. We, adults, say this when we can't explain the evil overpowering this world, hoping the other side offers the love and peace this life sometimes denies us. Na'Ziyah, you are loved—you are love. Like so many little Black girls, you fell victim to a world that too often refuses to let love's power lead us to something better.

Fly, little one. Fly.

With Love,

Candice

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill,

of things unknown, but longed for still,

and his tune is heard on the distant hill,

for the caged bird sings of freedom.”

― Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings