won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.
As long as there is a world that seeks to erase Black folk, we will never be ‘doing too much.’ In this observation of ‘too much’ who quantifies this? Who can say what is ‘too much’ or why it is ‘too much’. Now, I am well aware of what the phrase means. I know what the words in their individual power mean. What I am not understanding, or what I desire to understand is how these words are so apt to be affixed to Black women! I truly do not believe the world realizes just how and how hard it is to be Black and woman–daily. To have everything from your skin tone, hairstyle, speech pattern and whether or not your knees are crusty examined. I’m sure there are no new contagions studied with such scrutiny!
Have I said this phrase to more than one woman I know? I sure have. Have I said this phrase when a situation was already out of hand, and someone’s behavior (whether Black or White) exacerbated it? Yes! The phrase ‘too much’ is itself an exacerbation! Yet–it is the behavior I want to see change, not the essence. Therein lies the rub! The current adage is we [Black women] will always be too loud for a world determined not to hear us. So, the idea of being ‘too much’ manifests in success, in victories, in triumphing over something set, thought, and set out to kill us! I must become ‘too much’ in order to be seen, heard, fed, to feed, and to thrive!
I must become my own hero because none is coming! I have accepted the title, own the space of ‘being too much’ or being seen as ‘doing too much’. I accept that there are those whom will see out that space I occupy or they will flee from it! It is not my job to acclimate to a world on a continuous basis that only seeks to destroy or deconstruct me. I have decided to celebrate–because even in graveyards, there are trees.
I have purposed myself to stretch towards that light, the power, the space of knowing all I am is valued, necessary, formidable and most of all undeniable.
The world loves to tell Black women what they are not. It love to look at us, copy us, love the pieces of us, yet choking (or lusting!) on the whole only to then look us in the face to tell us we need to change!
And the world, and those in it want to know why Black women have the nerve to be angry? Octavia Butler said something similar: “Some people have no idea what it is like to have the whole world sat against you.” Nothing could be more right, and leave it to a person who was Black, woman, and writer to reveal such a truth! Why should I change when the world sees me a troublemaker, whore and mule–all three things you can (and do) commodify! The secret is–anything that Black touches is still Black. Why should I change? How can I change? What am I changing? Who said I need to change it? What I have learned is when a woman is told she needs to change, there is something about her way of being–her essence–which intimidates people. Now, essence and behavior are not the same thing! Essence is who you are at your core, those immutable things. Behavior is what you do depending on the situation you are in: this can be changed.
Essence cannot be changed.
This is why we have parents–those people assigned to our lives (through birth or circumstance) to show us how to behave (this is the process of being raised) and who we are (our essence). The world loves to commodify the unique, but persecute what it cannot control. At the essence, at the core of this concept called being Black/Blackness the constructs of white supremacy, racism and capitalism can do nothing with! Black people, Blackness cannot be eradicated. Since it cannot be eradicated, it can be exploited! It can be associated with all things undesireable, criminal and evil. See, if you can control a narrative, you can decide or describe what best suits it.
This is the power of a [the] Master Narrative–and why it must be questioned, challenged and dismantled at every turn! At it’s essence it is wrong. Saying who I am at my core, most base self is evil or wrong because it does not suit you, exists independent of you, and refuses to bend to you–is wrong! I cannot change what I am, what I know and believe to be true of and to myself for the comfort of those whom seek my oppression, destruction and erasure. I will not do it. I cannot suffer it. I will not accept it.
In this work, I reveal more of myself, and ‘owning my and’. From motherhood, reflecting on my childhood, the death of my father, being in love and not anymore–I examine all of this. In that space, the poetry is divided into 3 categories:
Mind. Body. Soul.
My mother said that after 25, you (as a woman) begin to settle into yourself.
The work is about 30 pieces of poetry, with a surprise in back of it!
What is the definition of the 3-letter word ‘and’? There are 15 definitions to what this little word means. The best way to remember the power this word has is the word conjunction. A conjunction is a word that allows a sentence to be richer, more complex. Think of conjunctions (such as and, but and or) as the hitch to a tow truck –allowing you to bring all of your imagination to the page. With this in mind, I want you, the writer, to begin to do something radical: own your ‘and’.
What does this mean, you ask?
This is a reminder to you as a writer to bring all your experiences to the any work, idea or project that you have. For me? My and’s are as follows:
I am Black, woman and writer.
I am woman and mother.
I am a believer in God and am pro-life in the complete sense.
These are just a few, of course, but these are just some of the identities and experiences I bring to anything space, platform and project I am involved with.
There will be no idea you will write or conceive which will not expect or demand you be confident in all that you are. In owning your ‘and’ you are owning your identity. You are defining how you move in the world, undetermined or undermined by the opinions of other people. This kind of radical honesty is imperative to a writer! Ownership and mastery of the self is tool of a writer, and needed no matter the genre you desire to write!
The work you create will always bring a small sense of uncertainty. This feeling of tightrope walking, holding a stack of dishes on your head! The only way to conquer that feeling is to realize not to look down, and you succeed one step at a time…and the further you go on this tightrope, the more dishes you get to throw off you head. Knowing who are as an individual, accepting who are as an individual, gives your space as a writer! This space is invaluable because it grants you a power to be honest, open and vulnerable. This, this willingness to be honest brings a beauty and empathy to you work.
This is the power of storytelling! When a writer can ‘own their and’ and create because of or in spite of, they give a piece of themselves to their readers whom will become their audience.
Shy from nothing. Embrace everything. Own your ‘and.’
At this point in my life, the women that I confide in are in two categories: Mother figures and Sisterfriends. One of my sisterfriends is the remarkable, beautiful and completely savage (she describes herself as a ‘manicured pit viper’) Kelly Heflin. I have been a part of her world–happily–due in part to my own wit, love of fashion, and the same substance I believe all women have that have gone through the loss of fathers.
And in that power, with that wit, I call her my sister. Shouts to Kellz!
With that, she never ceases to amaze me with the level of nonsense she reveals from her inbox into the waiting Facebook world. From this, I have seen my sister be called everything that could enter into the heart of a petty, jealous, acrid man. I have seen the messages that she was bold enough to share (because, Kellz–and I love she!). The thing that is so confounding about this, is their reaction to her reaction to not wanting to be treated as anything less than what she was taught she was! Her answer to that, which is my echo, “If you wouldn’t let your daughter settle for it, why would you want me to?”
I agree, Sis. I agree!
I should not–will not–lessen myself to the point of being gaslighted for the sake of ‘having someone.’ Why should I? Who is raising these men-impostors?! Who started this lie that in order to have the woman you want you have to break her like a wild mare? Why is a woman to be broken, to be made whole to and for a man? Let me give you some Bible, because the I know the Hoteps are trying to formulate a way to ‘check’ me.
Note: I write and sign checks; I am never to be checked.
Or, as my ex-husband said: “You can’t handle when a man like me puts me in your place.” My retort, like a reflex, was “Where is my place? What is my place?”
Women are the last divine thing to look God in the face. Think about this! So, if I–like you–am a divine, sentient creature, why should I not be treated as such? If we go through Genesis, and really read it, Adam was in charge of naming all things in the Garden of Eden. And it was he that named the being that came out of him–and praised God for it. And named it. Anything you honor, you care for and name! So, if my job is to be a complement, a help, and source of support, why should have I to dim or become less in order to be suitable? Please, make this make sense.
There is a generation of women before us whom we, the women whom are those late 70s-80s babies entering into middle age, are looking at and wondering–Why was this treatment of okay? Why is my ability to endure, to soldier on, to cry in showers and in pie or cobbler filling the proof by which I am to be chosen? Now, I was taught charm and class by my mother. I know how to handle myself, and be a lady–that is second nature. My father is one who taught me game–who said to me that ‘No one can feel your brain.” Let me translate: it’s not good enough to just be smart; keep yourself up. I, at 39, and examining these conversations my sisterfriend had in a new light. They are hurtful. They are demeaning. They are gaslighting at its finest! The most outrageous one that I have ever seen was the one she shared from a man who told her–unprovoked! No one sent for this dude!–who decided to tell her that she needed to be more humble. That she just needed ‘a good man’ to ‘humble her’.
Let me say this: If you feel you have to humble a woman, in order for her to be suitable, you will never have her. As I say often, “If you have to hold her with a chaser, you don’t know how to run!” What does this mean? It means you are not ready for what it is you want–and you need it to be more palatable to be able to handle it. You just not ready, son. He told her that she was too ambitious and it is intimidating to men. I, like my sister Kelly, thought none of these words strewn together into what he believed with all his strength would make sense–do not, in fact, make sense.
This good man by which homeboy spoke of could handle and support an ambitious woman! A good man would see that the woman he wants, has a life outside of him, and is not defined by him only–and he wouldn’t want her to be! A good man would know his girl to the point she would never have to humble herself: he would make her feel safe enough to submit to his leadership (that is the key to submission: Can you make her feel safe? And care for her? Can she rest with you? But that is another conversation–isn’t it?). A good man would know how to lead, guide and protect his woman without believing he has to break her, hurt her, in order to have her.
Y’all need to check your boys…they are surely not men.
I normally don’t write about 9/11. I’m not a native New Yorker, I say ‘FTP’ often, and I have never been to the East Coast. Yet, I remember exactly what time I heard when the first plane hit, I know where I was, I remember the shrill tone in my mother’s voice. In this time of COVID-19, it feels surreal: both near and far away.
I was in love with New York City.
I wanted to go to NYU. I thought the farthest I could get away from St. Louis, had to be New York. And I wanted to go. Fashion. Culture. Food. People. I wanted all of it!
In the time of COVID-19, it is weird to remember everything about that day–almost 20 years ago. Even when I think of it now it doesn’t seem like it should be something that happened 20 years ago. That morning, a Tuesday of all things, I remember I was sitting in the room of my mother’s house. I was on the phone, talking to some guy who was not my boyfriend. The radio was on, and I was listening to Z1077–my favorite local station.
I remember hearing something about a plan crashing, and didn’t think anything about it. That is until my mother screamed from downstairs, “Jennifer, is there a movie playing on Channel 4 (the local CBS station)?!” “No!” I screamed back. I think I remember her telling me to come see what she was seeing. I ran down the stairs clad in light blue surgical scrubs, bare feet and a t-shirt. I sat on her bed, mouth looking like a catfish.
I couldn’t believe it! Did I see any planes hit the Twin Towers? No. And I am so thankful that I didn’t. That is one memory of that day I didn’t want. I remember being in a daze. I remember nothing making sense. I remember fasting and praying for about 4,5 days for the first responders. Even praying for the police! I wanted everyone in NYC to be okay. It was a few days later that my mother said this:
“See! See! I saved your life! You wanted to go to New York, and look what happened?! See, you could have been working in one of those towers!”
As a 20-year-old kid (yes, at 20 you’re still a kid!), I rolled my eyes and was aghast she would say such a thing to me. As a 39-year-old woman, whom is the mother of 2? Oh, I can see the prophetic panic in her voice. I can look at her observation in a new light; age is humbling that way. I see her relief that I wasn’t in a tower and died, or having jumped or unconscious and burning to death. I feel her relief and stress knowing that I wasn’t ever probably going to New York–her prayers worked. It was years later that I found out my mother, oh-so God fearing, had prayed for me to not leave St. Louis! When I asked her why she had prayed such a prayer, she said:
“I knew if you had left you would have never come back.”
She was right. I wouldn’t have–ever. My demeanor was such that I would have been homeless in New York City rather than try to admit any sort of defeat and come home. She had, in fact, saved my life.
The memory that stays with me from that day is the helplessness! No one knew what to do other than call and check on the people we knew. I remember being in a daze in the days which followed. Unsure of what to do, what I could do, and wanting to do more than what I thought I could do. I remember feeling this way when Hurricane Katrina hit. I was 24 then. I announced to my mother that “I’m going to New Orleans to volunteer!” She looked at me and said, “No, you aren’t!” I looked at her, incredulous that she dare infringe on my adult decision to go help people! When I asked her why, she only would say, “If something happens, there is no one that can come and get you.”
Remembering 9/11 in the time of Orange Thanos and his henchmen, on top of COVID-19, there is a vulnerability that stays with me. It lingers like the odor of something that is burned. It is unsettling, and scary, and it feels like something else is about to happen. It feels like the ‘next bad thing’ is in arm’s reach. The nation is a state of mourning since the first of the year–over 100,000 people are dead. Yet, there are people today which will cry over the over 3000 whom perished in this act of evil, but will tell other people COVID is a hoax. They will support the police as they arbitrarily kill Black people! They will champion Orange Thanos even while he presides over the most corrupt administration aside from the Tribunal one might see on the way to Hell! As an essential worker, as the daughter of a nurse, as a patient care tech, as a mother, friend and daughter–this day feel like how matches smell before you strike them.
The Weird Sisters of Macbeth said, “Something wicked this way comes.” What happens when the wicked is already here? What can those that strive to do good, and love mercy do other than fight? In the face of mourning, we fight. And we listen to our mothers–they indeed are life-saving.
Meet MacKenna. Her life is complicated. I think I am on to something. Stay tuned.
MacKenna Anderson was due to walk down the aisle in two hours. The dress was delivered a week before, her veil, altered and belonging to her grandmother, Natalie two generations before, in her hand. Her mother, Carolina, fussing over her hair, again for the nineth time. “Oh, Kenna!” she gushed, guiding her face back towards the mirror in the Bridal suite. “You look so perfect! Paul is going to absolutely collapse with joy when he sees you!” MacKenna forced a smile, looking in the full-length mirror. She looked at the girl in the mirror looking back at her. Hair, ruler straight, and highlighted blonde as her mother thought best for a ‘fall event, light hair would be best.’ MacKenna’s mind went back to the early hours where she was alone the house she shared with Paul. That she recently bought with Paul. Her MBA graduation from Saint Louis University three years before and her families wealth and connections, made getting the big, pretty house in Ladue possible.
5 bedrooms. 3 bathrooms. Full basement and 3 car garage. “Kenna, it’s a starter house. We will get the house we really want after the first baby is born.” MacKenna let her mind wander, let it take her to the days before her revelation at 4am on the night of her wedding day. A week before she and her friend, Jocelynne, sat in her bed. Mackenna had always been so jealous of her, it was for that jealousy they became best friends. She had called Jocelyn over to her new house to talk. Just talk. “Sure, girl! I’ll be by after work.” MacKenna smiled remembering how warm Jocelynne was—how her presence made everything lighter and better. She had come over, in her new black Lincoln Navigator, and Chanel sunglasses and threw her arms around MacKenna. They laughed as they always had in the 15 years had been friends, best friends since 8th grade.
Jocelynne took off her glasses to show her brown face, and natural hazel eyes, with her Delta Sigma Theta tee shirt that she always wore on weekends. “The Maid on Honor has arrived, chile!” She laughed that rolling, deep, thunder loud laugh of hers and MacKenna held her again, laughing infectious now. “I really needed you to come by, Lynne.” Jocelynne’s face slacked, her eyes searching MacKenna’s. “What is it?” MacKenna walked into the kitchen, hearing Jocelynne’s heels behind her. MacKenna took a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, putting it on a table. She didn’t watch for Jocelynne to decide which seat she would want. MacKenna took to wine glasses from the wine glass rack—a wedding present from her grandmother. “You’ll need such trappings of privilege when you start entertaining, MacKenna.” Jocelynne looked at her from the chair nearest the door in the kitchen. Her red peacoat a happy pop of color on the back of the black chair. Her hair, dark and newly done, Mackenna could tell—she smelled the hairspray and her signature Addict by Dior.
MacKenna handed her the glass, sitting across from her. As she shifted in the seat, her reflection expanding in the wine bottle. Her skin, lighter than Jocelynne’s and her hair, needed to be done—the dark roots showing. Her secret sprouting from inside her. She saw her eyes, green-hazel, and saw the tears. MacKenna closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the table shift as the bottle was removed from its station as pillar in the middle of the glass table. Jocelynne’s heels clicked as drawers opened, and shut. “All this shit y’all got in here, and it take forever to find a corkscrew!” MacKenna sighed, a bitter tinge to her laughter. “Blame Paul! You know I don’t have anything to do with that!” Smoothing her face, she opened her eyes to see Jocelynne opening the bottle with a small corkscrew that she had. “Look, if you are about to be the wife of a surgeon—”
“Soon-to-be surgeon. this is the last year of residency for him.” Jocelynne rolled her eyes and went back to her perch at the table. “Anyway,” she rolled her eyes. “You have to be able to—” MacKenna started to cry. She chest ached. She cried as she had when her grandfather died. “Mac!” Jocelynne went over to her, holding her as MacKenna went limp and slid to the floor. “Girl! What is it?” This is how Jocelynne became, remained her best friend. She knew that MacKenna was passing for white. Jocelynne knew all that MacKenna could bear to tell her. How she couldn’t pledge Delta with her. How she couldn’t really play in the sun as a little girl. How when Brandy got to be popular in middle school, she couldn’t get her hair braided. Her mother kept her hair straight. The one time that Jocelynne’s mother, Halle, took her and MacKenna to New Orleans for their Senior year of high school? And she came home tan? Carolina had slapped her across the face for coming home ‘too Black.’ MacKenna’s chest heaved in the mirror, grateful for the gift of the corset bodice of the dress.
“After everything we have worked for! How dare you do this? How dare you—do you not know what you did?” MacKenna had held her hot face, biting her lip and willing her hands not to become fists. She willed the thoughts of killing her mother to the back of her mind. “I cannot wait to get out of here! You can’t control me forever, Mom! You can’t keep doing this to me! Jocelynne knows I’m Black! You grew up with her Mama! Why are you—” Carolina slapped her again, and again, until her screams brought her brothers Samuel and Brandon to get their mother off of her.
MacKenna’s memories splintered as she tried to focus. She thought of Jocelynne’s Dior warmth as she tried to reassure her. She thought of the rage on her mother’s face. She remembered her brothers pulling their mother off of her, but Carolina’s jaw connecting with MacKenna’s left hand. Joceylnne’s words came to her again. “Tell them, tell them what you want, Mac. You can’t keep going through all of this! Paul doesn’t know, does he?”
Paul didn’t know. Carolina’s mother had made sure he wouldn’t know. “Money is a useful tool, MacKenna, and right now, you need to remember what you are getting—not what you are giving up! Stop dreaming and live in reality!” Reality. What was that to people who lie? Who built a family on lying? What was reality to people who made it up? Her mind took her to this morning, to her bathroom, to the straight razors and hot bath she ran. She was grateful that Paul was gone to his Bachelor Party. Grateful at the thought she might have been unfaithful to her, that she would have something on him like he did on her. The steam of the bathroom fogged the mirror, wiping the steam away she saw her face wet with her own tears. She took the razors and when to her bath, I’ll just soak, she thought. Soaking is not suicide. Soaking is resting, letting your body rest. MacKenna just wanted to rest—have her mind rest.
The heat of the bathwater, pulled tension an apprehension, from her body. The wine she had would help her as well. She smiled thinking of the line from Romeo and Juliet: ‘…no friendly drop to help me.” She had a glass full of friendly drops She let her hair coil, what her mother told her to never do in the tub. “You never want to have your hair, nappy, MacKenna.” She would always have face twisted at the word nappy. “White girls do not have nappy hair.” MacKenna laughed, and drank the wine. “But Black girls do, Mother! Black girls have nappy hair, Carolina!” She swallowed the glass of wine in four swallows, reaching to put the glass on the soapdish near the gold tinted faucets.
Mackenna looked at the razors on the side of the clawfoot tub, gleaming and inviting. She had cut herself in middle school during her mother’s second divorce. Kendall, her middle school best friend, told her that if she cut herself in the tub it wouldn’t hurt so bad and it could heal quicker. “I do it all the time,” she said, applying her Bonne Bell lip gloss in the bathroom of Vianney Middle School. “Whenever you get stressed, don’t throw up like the Barfing Bitches in Mr. Howell’s class. Just…cut.” She said the word with such ease, that she thought she was lying. That is until she looked at her exposed thigh under her plaid skirt. MacKenna smiled at the razors, looking like silver stars on the side of the tub. She cried again, thinking of Kendall and how her father found her in the tub during a visit to his house after her parents’ divorce. She had gone too deep, knicked her femoral artery. Had taken her stepmother’s Valium. She was only 16. That’s when MacKenna stopped.
The tears started again. For herself, for Kendall, for her Jocelynne, for Halle. She blinked hard and felt herself spirited to the bridal suite again. Her skin, still light, flushed and untanned. Her dress pristine, the embroidery indicative of a patience she, herself, was not capable of. She concentrated on steadying her breathing, thinking and believing enough deep breaths could keep her from being pulled apart like a wound suffering dehiscence. MacKenna smoothed her hair, looking at her reflection as the veil lay on her lap. She kept breathing, looking at the false eyelashes she insisted were too big. She looked at her roots, still black, looking at back at her. The hairstylist convinced that if the veil were placed just right, no one would ever know or notice. “They aren’t that bad, Mrs. Walton. They aren’t that dark! I’ll finesse them a bit, and it’ll be fine.”
MacKenna hated her mother then. Wished that she could have just vanished like her older sister, Lorelei, had done. She wished for her sister, wished for that kind of strength. But she looked down at the veil, seeing the tears fall. The weight of everything fell on her again, as she heard Jocelynne’s ringtone from the table behind her. As tears started again, she felt her mother’s linen handkerchief pressing into her hand. “Snap out of it MacKenna. It’s time to go.”
I remember the Monica/Brandy, Brandy/Monica rivalry. I remember liking Brandy and Monica! But at the same time, when I heard Monica’s voice as a 14-year-old? Chile, you couldn’t tell me nothing! And I was wearing my hair short in high school anyway?! For whatever reason, my parents wouldn’t let me have ‘Brandy Braids.” But that is another conversation for another day.
The conversation surrounding this Verzuz Battle got me to thinking. Why is it such amusement to see Black women at each other? Why is the rivalry (or any rivalry) a sport between Black women a source of amusement for the entire world? Yet, it reminded me of a conversation that Tyra Banks had with Naomi Campbell when she had her talk show. Now, for those of you who are my younger tribe members, let me tell you who these two people are.
Tyra Banks (before she hosted/created America’s Next Top Model and had a talk show (Tyra)) was a supermodel in the late 1990’s. She is Black. She is still gorgeous.
Naomi Campbell is a supermodel, and has been a model for at least 30 years. Not an exaggeration. Not a typo. Naomi is 50 now, and still incredibly stunning.
I bring them up in this space of rivalry and competition because there are themes I saw in this Verzuz that I saw on the Naomi Campbell came on Tyra’s show! The thing that Tyra said to Naomi was the industry they were in (modeling, beauty) seemed to not be able to handle there being more than one Black supermodel in the industry.
Tyra went on to say that she felt that Naomi didn’t like her, she felt alone, and just wondered why it was Naomi (seemed) not to like her! Imagine that! Tyra Banks was a young, pretty, Black girl that is modeling–a very non-Black space, and the person that could help you–hates you! That struck me, deeply. It was from that show–that moment!–that I purposed I would not tear down another Black woman for my own gain.
With Brandy and Monica, Monica and Brandy I see the same thread. Women in an industry that thrives on talent, yes, but also exploits! This is the same industry that helped to take WHITNEY ELIZABETH HOUSTON from us! It is so easy for the world to put lanes and limits on Black women; to compete for things that we should have access to and for. Instead of fighting the industry by which we are making our way in, confronting the people/entities that control it, we fight for access to the one door they offer.
We fight each other for the one door.
The killer part? There was so much shade thrown on social media, that it overshadowed the fact these women have had careers in an industry that devours women or replicates them! What was the sweetest thing was this 30 second clip Verzuz didn’t show–Monica and Brandy actually hugging back stage. There was shade thrown at their outfits, and how they tried to make small talk. What I will say is the conversation did look forced. But, that is from the context of not seeing what happened backstage? Yeah, it does look more forced than it probably was.
But the history, the innuendo, and the need to have Black women compete for what should be shared or built to accommodate–it’s more amusing to have us fight. And we fall into it. Brandy has had so much success, and tragedy. Monica has had so much success and tragedy. And it is said that from great tragedy comes great art.
This rivalry was supposed be 20 years ago…so can we leave it there? Please?
This year has been hard enough. The easiest thing to do now, I feel, is celebrate more than we criticize. The winner last night for this Verzuz was the culture! It was us! It was good to just jam and reminiscence for a couple hours, man! It was lovely! They aren’t best friends, and they don’t ever need to be. They were grown-ass women with careers, babies and a bag to secure!
The most beautiful thing? They did it for us…because that’s what Black women do.
This rant is courtesy of Facebook. A girl named Vanessa Bobineaux shared this and a FB friend of mine shared it after. This here is the roux of being a ‘Pick Me’. Dig this part though: I said what I said. -JBHarris, 9/1/2020
This is a false equivalence.
For every woman that is “tying to do what a man does”, there is a woman trying to do what she HAS to because the man that promised her help, DID NOT, HAS NOT, or WILL NOT!
This issue is not solely based on “feminist ideology.” Some is this is because men are not being raised or taught as they used to. Some men are TAUGHT a woman is supposed to do everything for you; she must become LESS than in order for you to be secure and right.
Biologically, I know I cannot do everything a man can do. The issue is when a man doesn’t want to do/know how to do all he is supposed to! And because the makeup of women is to nurture and maintain, we fill in the gaps!
We get the second job.
We take the extra shifts.
We take kids for hair cuts and braid appointments.
We change tires and oil.
We tend to you and the kids when you “just can’t do it today.”
We aren’t “losing” our uniqueness—WE ARE TIRED.
For that reason, we have stopped asking for help, because help isn’t coming. We carry the groceries in because we bought them! We go car shopping with Carvana and Car Facts because when some of us ask the men in our lives for help? Then we ‘need too much.’
But no, no, not losing our uniqueness. We are becoming something else—and not by choice. This strength has come from some of us as women tired of asking for help, and no one coming. Most women have no eversion to being taken care of—no woman I know does. We just haven’t been blessed with a partner who can do that consistently. That needs to be factored in as well! Not to mention there are women who need healing from the traumatic lie of “I don’t need a man for nothing”, but keep engaging in toxic behavior with the same people (read: men) they claim no to want.
It is with deep sadness that I have to report the passing of Chadwick Boseman at age 43. This young man pressed, for US, so a generation of Black boys can see themselves on screen–for generations to come. Thank you, Chadwick. Thank you.
How do you bury a king
When all have seen him rise?
How do you bury a king when
We have all seen ourselves in his eyes?
How can you be told that he whom has
Embraced both crown and light
Now neither can exist in the same space
Because the vessel made able and ready
To hold both is now gone.
Gone, knowing that death is never the end and the end is only the beginning, because the beginning is always on going.
And since it is on-going, so must we be on-going.
We must go on.
Life must go on.
We must be alive to remain and to remain is to identify all that a king as left.