J.R. Whittington

“Forever” wrapped around my spirit and kissed the parts I thought had gone numb—Black love, soft and sacred, finally shown the way it deserves.

I booked a TV show at the top of the year and thought, “Finally, it’s happening.” But Hollywood said, *“No, bish. Back to the grind.”* Still, I’m here—seasoned, sharp, and ready. Dreaming out loud. Fighting for the unseen.

These weren’t performers. These were mirrors. I saw my cousins, my aunties, my brothers in them. They reached into their souls and pulled me out of my own weary world. I wasn’t just in the audience—I was in their home. I was on that stage. I was *them.*

Not many of us on that set, but the ones who were there—we saw each other. The Black nod. The I see you. The calm the fu*K down. The your ancestors fought for this moment. That nod filled my chest with joy. Made me walk taller. Made me slay.