On this day, James, when the world is a little older, a little wiser, and still so unforgivably lost, I find myself grasping for the inadequate language we share, the cruel English that has so often failed us, to honor you.

Yet, no words seem to suffice. You, who carved light from the depth of our darkest nights, who drew the contours of our pain and resilience with such luminous precision. You, who dared to speak when silence was the most seductive refuge, who made poetry of our fragmented histories and futures yet imagined.

There are not enough words, not enough breaths in this fragile body, to encapsulate the enormity of what you mean to me, to us. You, James Baldwin, are the ember that ignites our perpetual dawn, the unyielding heartbeat of our collective soul. Happy 100th birthday — thank you.