Sometimes, it’s just easy fashion, a Monday through Sunday look that even if it couldgo out of style, I wouldn’t care; my hoops are mine. Other times, I see Black people and People of Color, and those descended from indigenous peoples, and suddenly my hoops exalt me into the tribes of my ancestors, locking me firmly into a legacy that’s richer than any American history book or Urban Outfitters trend would ever willingly acknowledge. I’m given the password to an exclusive yet perennial zeitgeist peopled by fierce-eyed Black and Browns who share not only struggle, but beauty. Resilience. Fortitude. Creativity. Ingenuity. And legacy. Legacy. Legacy. Legacy. Most days, I’m pretty thoughtless about my hoops. I throw in my go-to pair: big, gold-plated, inexpensive, and just heavy enough that I can feel them move with me as I go about my day. They are the ones I can wear with almost anything, and when I look in the mirror, I can feel myself come into greater focus. I feel elevated, a Black regal. I feel like maybe people will think twice before they try to fuck with me to today. I wear them, too, as a signal to the homies. They call out This is who I am and who I am proud to be! This is the jewel in the armor I wear to fight white supremacy! Stand with me! The first pair of hoops I can remember were given to me by my mother when I was just five years old. She had pierced my ears when I was a baby, but I never liked jewelry because I thought it just got in the way of all the running, jumping, cartwheeling and general mayhem I liked to engage in. This was the first piece of jewelry that I didn’t fight her about. I remember them so clearly - they were small and delicate, probably hollow inside because they were so light, gold with a clasp in the back, and beveled sides. Putting those hoops in before church I remember as the first time in my young life that I ever experienced feeling beautiful.