Written by Kwesi D.
He should have counted himself lucky (had he been able to count) that he had arrived during a different age in this dimension. His mother and father might have done some tallying of their own, had they not been otherwise disposed. The truth was that they themselves were too young and ill-equipped to fully take hold of the texture of the period they occupied. After all, were there not countless settings they could stroll through without being accosted? The possibility of seeing the eyes of God on a limp swing at the edge of a branch was an abstract one. And they had never grinded their teeth by lamplight, crouching, with windows barred and ears straining to hear footsteps approaching in the wind. Instead, they wore iPods, with sixteen bars pounding on their eardrums; and reclined in front of forty-two-inch screens that made their skin glow from pink to blue to green.
The elders, now well past their prime, were quietly certain of the child’s good fortune. It almost astounded them that he was just three and could access cell phones and laptops with startling familiarity even if mastery would not come for another four, five years. Whenever they all gathered, they took turns throwing tales about their grandchildren gleefully onto the table, and sat back to watch them bounce together like marbles among competitors. The young child’s parents convened with their own contingent, staggering in from jobs they disliked, making plans to pay for extra studio time, and sending the boy and his toys to the back bedroom so that one of the guests could commence with the splitting of the Dutches at the kitchen counter. Their pungent phrases drifted on fog to where he was contentedly navigating his toy Hummer; they swirled around him; they swooped him up; and when the child swore in front of the elders the following day, everyone was aghast.
These were signs of the times, the elders said; they shook their heads and walked away, and left the young to tend to the young. The boy was boosted in his booster seat as his parents chuckled on the ride home. He marveled at how quickly the houses and trees raced across his window, and the cars. Cars! There were cars in multiplicity roving right beside him; cars for him to pick up and roll clear across the ground or to fling from high on the bed to see them crash. He giggled. Ooh…there was a white and black, no blue car pulling up alongside them, a car with flashing lights! The child called to his mother to share his excitement, but she just placed a pacifying hand behind her seat and tugged his leg. He was not convinced she could see it. The boy called again…Daddy saw it! Yes! But somehow the man was not pleased. He said something to his passenger. They turned the music down.
The vehicle slowed and then stopped. A man with a helmet and something reddening his cheeks was at the window, taking papers from Daddy. He left. He came back. He disappeared once more and returned. The blinking lights mesmerized the child, but he tried hard to focus on what his father was saying to the man; the two seemed to be disagreeing on a grave subject. Daddy started yelling. Mommy was yelling too. The voices formed an echo that made the child’s ears hurt, it frightened him when it reached into the back, undid his seatbelt, and yanked him out of his chair. The boy was cloaked in his mother’s arms; she squeezed his back to her chest and moved out into the grass. Her hair was blowing wildly around her face.
The boy stared at the rotating red glow, allowing its magic to penetrate his eyes. A sudden instinct made him seek out his father. The man had put a lock on Daddy’s hands and was taking him away. What was he doing? The boy’s distress mounted, and then, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The child hollered, feeling his mother twist him to the side. The boy attempted to spring from her arms as the lights began to taunt him – their earlier radiance now changing unexpectedly to a darker tint. The red flicked fire at him, scorching its image into his memory. The wheels started a slow roll. They were taking his father away. The child was overcome with dread. He let out a frantic shriek as the car pulled off, with his father’s head bowed in the back, and those lights dancing jubilantly in the midst of his tears.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Visit
Written by Nefertiti N.
She tied the scarf tightly around her head, covering the grey tendrils on her forehead, and continued washing the pots, humming an old, upbeat tune that masked her uneasiness. It was a tune she knew from her youth many years ago, one that accompanied one of the many folk stories her grandmother would tell. Her husband paced the courtyard with his brow furrowed, and looked sharply at his wife.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No…” she replied, wondering how she would eventually break the news to him.
“Humph…” he grunted, as he walked away, his tall, lean frame disappearing under the curtains that adorn the bedroom door.
She sighed heavily.
Just two days ago, their daughter had come home. She was an adult now, a career woman who called London her home. They had gone to meet her at the airport, their beloved daughter whom they hadn’t seen in five years. She ran toward them, arms outstretched, a look of excitement and apprehension on her face. Her father stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity before embracing and welcoming his daughter home. Her mother immediately hugged her and shed tears…tears of joy for this moment of having her daughter back, and tears of sorrow for what she imagined her daughter had to endure in that foreign land. Her daughter’s now nearly porcelain complexion was hard to miss even under a hat, scarf and shades.
She thought of her daughter in her youth…absolutely beautiful. Her striking features, her rich, deep chocolate skin, and her presence…
A mother always knows…when she spoke to her daughter over the course of the past five years she could hear the insecurity, the emotional aching for…something she couldn’t quite place.
Did she not think she was beautiful? No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter was gorgeous…and had been told so by many. She couldn’t imagine what it was like…to live in a foreign culture for so long…and to lose something…a sense of self? Of self-worth?
An argument between father and daughter later erupted. Although her daughter’s change in complexion was the invisible source of the argument, it was never mentioned nor alluded to…but the damage was done. Her daughter packed her bags and left without a word to her father.
These were the things running through her mind as she washed the pots, and she wondered when she would see her daughter again.
She put away the last of the pots and rose, joining her husband on the cement daybed in the courtyard.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked emptily, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” she whispered back, as the night air hung heavily between them.
She tied the scarf tightly around her head, covering the grey tendrils on her forehead, and continued washing the pots, humming an old, upbeat tune that masked her uneasiness. It was a tune she knew from her youth many years ago, one that accompanied one of the many folk stories her grandmother would tell. Her husband paced the courtyard with his brow furrowed, and looked sharply at his wife.
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No…” she replied, wondering how she would eventually break the news to him.
“Humph…” he grunted, as he walked away, his tall, lean frame disappearing under the curtains that adorn the bedroom door.
She sighed heavily.
Just two days ago, their daughter had come home. She was an adult now, a career woman who called London her home. They had gone to meet her at the airport, their beloved daughter whom they hadn’t seen in five years. She ran toward them, arms outstretched, a look of excitement and apprehension on her face. Her father stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity before embracing and welcoming his daughter home. Her mother immediately hugged her and shed tears…tears of joy for this moment of having her daughter back, and tears of sorrow for what she imagined her daughter had to endure in that foreign land. Her daughter’s now nearly porcelain complexion was hard to miss even under a hat, scarf and shades.
She thought of her daughter in her youth…absolutely beautiful. Her striking features, her rich, deep chocolate skin, and her presence…
A mother always knows…when she spoke to her daughter over the course of the past five years she could hear the insecurity, the emotional aching for…something she couldn’t quite place.
Did she not think she was beautiful? No, it couldn’t be. Her daughter was gorgeous…and had been told so by many. She couldn’t imagine what it was like…to live in a foreign culture for so long…and to lose something…a sense of self? Of self-worth?
An argument between father and daughter later erupted. Although her daughter’s change in complexion was the invisible source of the argument, it was never mentioned nor alluded to…but the damage was done. Her daughter packed her bags and left without a word to her father.
These were the things running through her mind as she washed the pots, and she wondered when she would see her daughter again.
She put away the last of the pots and rose, joining her husband on the cement daybed in the courtyard.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” he asked emptily, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” she whispered back, as the night air hung heavily between them.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Jaguar
written by Felicia York
She painted herself in the colors she thought they wanted to see. Eyes gold, cheeks pink, lips red and in the night, she prowled. Heels high, clothes tight, her perfumed permeated the air around her - a mixture of sweet flowers pungent with an intense desire she could not cover. The hunger rumbled inside of her as the loneliness settled in her bones for the night. She grazed the streets, her eyes peering into the darkness, searching. She sought solace in the murky nightclub as she placed the drink to her lips. Its cool liquid warmed her throat as it traveled to her belly. She sighed. The ladies were out that night. Prized mustangs who bucked against each other, their muscular thighs and butts grooving to the bass-heavy hip-hop beats. They whipped their hair, they win’ed their waists, they licked their lips and she felt like she couldn't compete. She sipped some more sizing up the gentlemen around her. She caught his eye, wanting to feel like he only saw her in the crowd. He smiled and winked at her. She sashayed to his side, her heart thumping in her chest. He picked her. She could rest until the next sun rose and set and dusk was once again at her heels again.
She painted herself in the colors she thought they wanted to see. Eyes gold, cheeks pink, lips red and in the night, she prowled. Heels high, clothes tight, her perfumed permeated the air around her - a mixture of sweet flowers pungent with an intense desire she could not cover. The hunger rumbled inside of her as the loneliness settled in her bones for the night. She grazed the streets, her eyes peering into the darkness, searching. She sought solace in the murky nightclub as she placed the drink to her lips. Its cool liquid warmed her throat as it traveled to her belly. She sighed. The ladies were out that night. Prized mustangs who bucked against each other, their muscular thighs and butts grooving to the bass-heavy hip-hop beats. They whipped their hair, they win’ed their waists, they licked their lips and she felt like she couldn't compete. She sipped some more sizing up the gentlemen around her. She caught his eye, wanting to feel like he only saw her in the crowd. He smiled and winked at her. She sashayed to his side, her heart thumping in her chest. He picked her. She could rest until the next sun rose and set and dusk was once again at her heels again.
2
as i walk over to the bed, i know that it's your smile that always gets to me, your smile that reels me in every time. you've turned off the overhead, and the only light is that of the lamp, which casts a gentle play of shadows on everything in the room. this creates a warmth that makes me take off my sweater before laying down on the bed beside you. you ask me about my day, and we chat for a few minutes. we talk with an ease that is rare; no frills, no second thoughts. something catches your eye on the tv, and you grab the remote to turn up the volume. i move over and lay my head on your shoulder. i close my eyes for a moment because i'm tired and it feels so good to just...be. i listen to your breathing as you take your arm and put it around me. you pull me closer and i take several deep breaths. i open my eyes and begin to trace the pattern on your shirt with my fingers. you smell so good, that i can't help but want something more. i unbutton your shirt just a little...enough to get my hand inside. your chest is firm and i can feel your heart beating. i move my head to look up at you, and i'm not sure we know where this is going. you lean down to kiss me and it's gentle. soft. no sense of urgency as we adjust to each other. my hand is still on your chest, but your hand moves down to my lower back. you caress me as we kiss, applying just enough pressure. you taste sweet, but that doesn't surprise me. you are a big fan of chocolate, always with some readily at hand. i like that you take your time to explore my mouth. i deepen the kiss, wondering how far we will take this. you answer my question as you pull me on top of you.
wynsters the tigress
wynsters the tigress
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Love: The Beginning
Written by Nefertiti N.
She blossomed with each touch…each caress…
Her lover captured her mind, body and soul…with finesse
Her pores were overflowing with love, and love…
Love loved her back.
Each day was magical…more sacred than the next…
She was on a natural high with each tender text…
Optimism fueled by infatuation
Eager anticipation
Got her through her 9 to 5 with no worries as to that sorry situation
So when her friends blew doubt in her ears
She chalked it up to the jealousy of her peers.
She might be right, and she might be wrong
I guess we’ll just have to follow along
To see the end of this song.
She blossomed with each touch…each caress…
Her lover captured her mind, body and soul…with finesse
Her pores were overflowing with love, and love…
Love loved her back.
Each day was magical…more sacred than the next…
She was on a natural high with each tender text…
Optimism fueled by infatuation
Eager anticipation
Got her through her 9 to 5 with no worries as to that sorry situation
So when her friends blew doubt in her ears
She chalked it up to the jealousy of her peers.
She might be right, and she might be wrong
I guess we’ll just have to follow along
To see the end of this song.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Eleven by Night
Written by Kwesi D.
Flocks of feathered floats had helped to facilitate the fantasy, flaring in and fanning out; ruffling as if the breeze had snuck up from the adjoining seaside and tickled them. They were tugged on and put on parade by tanned figures that were glistening with sweat, gyrating and giving in to a general sense of euphoria. They danced on vapors. It was an emancipation exclamation, a festival of melody, a gala that deceived even the native residents into thinking that they had been transported to some tropical dreamland for Carnival. Carnival! Except that this was North America; this was the land of migrants and Mounties, in the summer months, when the clouds were flickering and fleeting, and something frigid was a-rolling-in.
Fed by all the frenzy of the earlier hours, the revelers took the nightfall as it came. They took to the streets persevering with the recreation and the revelry. The more flamboyant of the set, parked expensive automobiles on the avenues with lights beaming, sounds blasting and the cleaning solutions drying unseen into the paint. The sidewalks were abuzz with the intoxicated and the inquisitive, and impudent youngsters on the prowl for their own amusements. Another line of vehicles made a syrupy slow drain down the main boulevard. And inside, the passengers' faces drew closer to the glass, meaning to miss nothing.
From five or so feet away, there seemed to be another costumed mass gathering – similar to those that were marching in the sun just hours before...but here? No. All of that pageantry had died out with the daylight; these were symbols of a different variety. Was it the red stripes surrounding those caps, which gave them such an unnatural look? Out-of-towners would find the attire too bright and celebratory for enforcers of the law to wear. And then, a woman screamed! The throngs suddenly became sluggish; frowns were formed out of just buoyant features; a kind of internal movement changed the formation of the police unit and a woman screamed.
Fists pounded on metal. The air had changed. The surge of blue parted to reveal the woman; her braids had unraveled and her head swayed low over her protruding stomach. The squad of blue, eleven they were, advanced upon the bawling captive. She wailed an announcement of her pregnancy, but she may as well have been shouting at thunder. The woman screamed. She wrestled her wrists against the silver handcuffs. Eleven officers struggled to take hold of the woman’s body, unaffected by the emotional exhibition. Eleven men were taking hold of one woman’s body. This, at Carnival!
Flocks of feathered floats had helped to facilitate the fantasy, flaring in and fanning out; ruffling as if the breeze had snuck up from the adjoining seaside and tickled them. They were tugged on and put on parade by tanned figures that were glistening with sweat, gyrating and giving in to a general sense of euphoria. They danced on vapors. It was an emancipation exclamation, a festival of melody, a gala that deceived even the native residents into thinking that they had been transported to some tropical dreamland for Carnival. Carnival! Except that this was North America; this was the land of migrants and Mounties, in the summer months, when the clouds were flickering and fleeting, and something frigid was a-rolling-in.
Fed by all the frenzy of the earlier hours, the revelers took the nightfall as it came. They took to the streets persevering with the recreation and the revelry. The more flamboyant of the set, parked expensive automobiles on the avenues with lights beaming, sounds blasting and the cleaning solutions drying unseen into the paint. The sidewalks were abuzz with the intoxicated and the inquisitive, and impudent youngsters on the prowl for their own amusements. Another line of vehicles made a syrupy slow drain down the main boulevard. And inside, the passengers' faces drew closer to the glass, meaning to miss nothing.
From five or so feet away, there seemed to be another costumed mass gathering – similar to those that were marching in the sun just hours before...but here? No. All of that pageantry had died out with the daylight; these were symbols of a different variety. Was it the red stripes surrounding those caps, which gave them such an unnatural look? Out-of-towners would find the attire too bright and celebratory for enforcers of the law to wear. And then, a woman screamed! The throngs suddenly became sluggish; frowns were formed out of just buoyant features; a kind of internal movement changed the formation of the police unit and a woman screamed.
Fists pounded on metal. The air had changed. The surge of blue parted to reveal the woman; her braids had unraveled and her head swayed low over her protruding stomach. The squad of blue, eleven they were, advanced upon the bawling captive. She wailed an announcement of her pregnancy, but she may as well have been shouting at thunder. The woman screamed. She wrestled her wrists against the silver handcuffs. Eleven officers struggled to take hold of the woman’s body, unaffected by the emotional exhibition. Eleven men were taking hold of one woman’s body. This, at Carnival!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Untitled
Written by Nefertiti N.
I love Black people. We are such a beautiful people…compassionate, forgiving, spiritual…simply beautiful. And partly because of that the most gruesome evils have been inflicted upon us as a people, spanning centuries and continents. Malcolm X puts it quite succinctly, “Any intelligent, honest, objective person cannot fail to realize that this white man’s slave trade, and his subsequent devilish actions are directly responsible for not only the presence of this Black man in America, but also for the condition in which we find this Black man here.”
Even in the face of the most arduous and intolerable conditions, we find a way not just to survive, but to live. Which is why I’m completely baffled at the behavior of some of my beautiful Black brothers and sisters. As I stood there in the department store trying to figure out why this white woman was getting better service than I from a Black sister, I quickly realized that this happens all the time. Time and time again I’ve seen it – my Black sisters and brothers interacting with white strangers like long lost friends and eyeing their fellow Black people with guarded suspicion…Why? Why is there this open friendliness, this need to make white people comfortable while a fellow Black brother or sister is thought to have some ulterior motive???
I have a theory – the psychological terror inflicted upon us a people still persists to this day.
In 1772 a slave master wrote a letter to his colleagues instructing them on how to destroy the Black man’s mind, his dignity, love for family, love for one another… Dubbed the Willie Lynch letter, it explicitly demonstrates how seeds of innate distrust can be sown…and over hundreds of years, the trees that sprouted from those seeds are still bearing fruit. And understandably so, since this physical and psychological horror lasted hundreds of years, extending beyond the era of slavery, and really – let’s be real – not that long ago racism was law. It is still law, by the way, just unwritten law. Racism has become such a part of American culture and has been so deeply entrenched that we continue to perpetuate it, which was the aim….Willie Lynch states, “The Black slave, after receiving this indoctrination, shall carry on and will become self-refueling and self-generating for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.”
And yes, I have read the works of the scholars who state that the Willie Lynch letter is a hoax. Whether it is or not, as far as I'm concerned, is irrelevant. Structural racism is the ongoing legacy of racism and is evident, for example, in the disproportionate numbers of black and brown people stopped by police and arrested for simply being black and brown as opposed to the comparatively low numbers of white persons stopped--the statistics are staggering. Lack of access to health, poverty, and a hopelessness that morphs into internalized oppression (indoctrination that has become self-refueling) are all lasting aftershocks of our history. And "our history" includes the lynchings of the Reconstruction Era, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era, to today, where racism (external and internalized) persists. Slavery was designed to destroy the Black man's mind, body and soul and our relationships with each other---and while it didn't destroy us, it sure did damage us---and that's what the Willie Lynch letter conveys.
And to people who say “get over it” – who do we say “get over it” to? As a good brother of mine said once; do you tell a person who has been raped to get over it because it was too many years ago?
An earth shaking experience such as we have had as a people is bound to have long lasting aftershocks. The question should be – How do we handle it? What do we do?
I have no answers...yet.
I love Black people. We are such a beautiful people…compassionate, forgiving, spiritual…simply beautiful. And partly because of that the most gruesome evils have been inflicted upon us as a people, spanning centuries and continents. Malcolm X puts it quite succinctly, “Any intelligent, honest, objective person cannot fail to realize that this white man’s slave trade, and his subsequent devilish actions are directly responsible for not only the presence of this Black man in America, but also for the condition in which we find this Black man here.”
Even in the face of the most arduous and intolerable conditions, we find a way not just to survive, but to live. Which is why I’m completely baffled at the behavior of some of my beautiful Black brothers and sisters. As I stood there in the department store trying to figure out why this white woman was getting better service than I from a Black sister, I quickly realized that this happens all the time. Time and time again I’ve seen it – my Black sisters and brothers interacting with white strangers like long lost friends and eyeing their fellow Black people with guarded suspicion…Why? Why is there this open friendliness, this need to make white people comfortable while a fellow Black brother or sister is thought to have some ulterior motive???
I have a theory – the psychological terror inflicted upon us a people still persists to this day.
In 1772 a slave master wrote a letter to his colleagues instructing them on how to destroy the Black man’s mind, his dignity, love for family, love for one another… Dubbed the Willie Lynch letter, it explicitly demonstrates how seeds of innate distrust can be sown…and over hundreds of years, the trees that sprouted from those seeds are still bearing fruit. And understandably so, since this physical and psychological horror lasted hundreds of years, extending beyond the era of slavery, and really – let’s be real – not that long ago racism was law. It is still law, by the way, just unwritten law. Racism has become such a part of American culture and has been so deeply entrenched that we continue to perpetuate it, which was the aim….Willie Lynch states, “The Black slave, after receiving this indoctrination, shall carry on and will become self-refueling and self-generating for hundreds of years, maybe thousands.”
And yes, I have read the works of the scholars who state that the Willie Lynch letter is a hoax. Whether it is or not, as far as I'm concerned, is irrelevant. Structural racism is the ongoing legacy of racism and is evident, for example, in the disproportionate numbers of black and brown people stopped by police and arrested for simply being black and brown as opposed to the comparatively low numbers of white persons stopped--the statistics are staggering. Lack of access to health, poverty, and a hopelessness that morphs into internalized oppression (indoctrination that has become self-refueling) are all lasting aftershocks of our history. And "our history" includes the lynchings of the Reconstruction Era, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era, to today, where racism (external and internalized) persists. Slavery was designed to destroy the Black man's mind, body and soul and our relationships with each other---and while it didn't destroy us, it sure did damage us---and that's what the Willie Lynch letter conveys.
And to people who say “get over it” – who do we say “get over it” to? As a good brother of mine said once; do you tell a person who has been raped to get over it because it was too many years ago?
An earth shaking experience such as we have had as a people is bound to have long lasting aftershocks. The question should be – How do we handle it? What do we do?
I have no answers...yet.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Racio-Misogyny in the Black Community - Part 2
Continued By Angelo Pinto
Addressing the root of why Black men and women look upon each other is a step in the direction of recreating Black Relationships and Black Intimacy. Our issues are not as a result of Black men desiring to hate Black women or the converse. It is a result of conditioning that cause us to devalue ourselves and one another coupled with western standards of relationships, intimacy, beauty, consumerism, individualism and success driving our behaviors and mind. Creating another disease to diagnosis the Black Community may be as important as creating another diagnosis in the DSM manual, which to my recollection has yet to place white supremacy or sexism among the various mental aliments that plague the population. However, in the spirit of transformation I welcome a new approach to addressing the particular dilemma which faces my mother, sister and wife “The Black Women”. However as we create and recognize this new area of thought we must also develop one which recognizes and supports the unique struggles of the Black man. I will not spend time naming, or addressing the importance or necessity of such a thing because I know it may be deemed as the refocusing on Black men that “we” do. However I will say as a collective we must reclaim the holistic approach which neither negates nor separates the Black man from the Black women when presenting solutions. We must be equally invested in our collective healing. As Bell Hooks has stated their must be a space in feminism where Black men and productive masculinity can be honored and used as and ally which illustrates our collective investment in restructuring Black male female relationships.
With that said Black women face a unique struggle and weight within the context of our community. Single family households are often headed by Black women who must provide financially, socially, emotionally, and mentally for their children and extended family members. Black women have increasingly faced difficulty in finding a suitable mate. Additionally, white feminism neglects and ignores the unique struggles of Black women. It should be noted that many Black men and women throughout the course of the feminist movement and today have said feminism is not Black women struggle. It is interesting because had found myself grappling with this ideological quagmire. Overstanding the necessity of Black women to identify and recognize the importance of their unique struggle that feminism offers a venue for. While at the same time recognizing that feminism has not provided Black women with an adequate seat at the table. I believe this is the same vein of many Black men and women who disregard feminism as a space for Black women because it did not truly honor the complexity of their position as Black women. Racio-misogyny appears to be the beginning of a brilliant conceptualization of a way in which Black women can more accurately identify and understand their struggles. I will become an ally in this paradigm shift, both in analysis and redemption. However, it is of extreme importance to strategically address the ways in which Racio-misogyny will we a place where Black men have a space different and distinct from all other men. It must also be critically analyzed the appropriate course in which Black men who are participating in the defiling of Black women (holding the gun) are treated in contrast to white men. Although the gun may be the same and the lethal consequences may be the same the collective outcome is quite different. Imagine for a moment if your father killed your mother or vice versa. Although a death will have occurred the collateral damage will be monumental. The family will likely be at odds even though the collective understands the depth of the death. Surrounding circumstances, a historical understanding, and personal familial relationships will all have to be taken into account. This is not simply this or that answer that western society has come to use to answer its problem through linear analysis. We must be more critical, innovative, and divorce ourselves from the practices and ideologies of separatism and individual problems and solutions.
The Black community currently has developed a hybrid culture of Western and African origins. Although this mixing of culture is not in-it-of itself destructive, there must be a centrality of ideology which guides this mixing to become a cultural gumbo and not a cultural slop of ingredients that simply are incompatible and not complementing. I do not believe Pan-Africanism, Culture Nationalism, Liberation Theology, Feminism and the likes are the ideological point of centrality that we must adopt however I believe they are all reference points in developing a new ideology, along with Racio-misogyny, that will ultimately bring forth the continued liberation of Black people and humanity.
Addressing the root of why Black men and women look upon each other is a step in the direction of recreating Black Relationships and Black Intimacy. Our issues are not as a result of Black men desiring to hate Black women or the converse. It is a result of conditioning that cause us to devalue ourselves and one another coupled with western standards of relationships, intimacy, beauty, consumerism, individualism and success driving our behaviors and mind. Creating another disease to diagnosis the Black Community may be as important as creating another diagnosis in the DSM manual, which to my recollection has yet to place white supremacy or sexism among the various mental aliments that plague the population. However, in the spirit of transformation I welcome a new approach to addressing the particular dilemma which faces my mother, sister and wife “The Black Women”. However as we create and recognize this new area of thought we must also develop one which recognizes and supports the unique struggles of the Black man. I will not spend time naming, or addressing the importance or necessity of such a thing because I know it may be deemed as the refocusing on Black men that “we” do. However I will say as a collective we must reclaim the holistic approach which neither negates nor separates the Black man from the Black women when presenting solutions. We must be equally invested in our collective healing. As Bell Hooks has stated their must be a space in feminism where Black men and productive masculinity can be honored and used as and ally which illustrates our collective investment in restructuring Black male female relationships.
With that said Black women face a unique struggle and weight within the context of our community. Single family households are often headed by Black women who must provide financially, socially, emotionally, and mentally for their children and extended family members. Black women have increasingly faced difficulty in finding a suitable mate. Additionally, white feminism neglects and ignores the unique struggles of Black women. It should be noted that many Black men and women throughout the course of the feminist movement and today have said feminism is not Black women struggle. It is interesting because had found myself grappling with this ideological quagmire. Overstanding the necessity of Black women to identify and recognize the importance of their unique struggle that feminism offers a venue for. While at the same time recognizing that feminism has not provided Black women with an adequate seat at the table. I believe this is the same vein of many Black men and women who disregard feminism as a space for Black women because it did not truly honor the complexity of their position as Black women. Racio-misogyny appears to be the beginning of a brilliant conceptualization of a way in which Black women can more accurately identify and understand their struggles. I will become an ally in this paradigm shift, both in analysis and redemption. However, it is of extreme importance to strategically address the ways in which Racio-misogyny will we a place where Black men have a space different and distinct from all other men. It must also be critically analyzed the appropriate course in which Black men who are participating in the defiling of Black women (holding the gun) are treated in contrast to white men. Although the gun may be the same and the lethal consequences may be the same the collective outcome is quite different. Imagine for a moment if your father killed your mother or vice versa. Although a death will have occurred the collateral damage will be monumental. The family will likely be at odds even though the collective understands the depth of the death. Surrounding circumstances, a historical understanding, and personal familial relationships will all have to be taken into account. This is not simply this or that answer that western society has come to use to answer its problem through linear analysis. We must be more critical, innovative, and divorce ourselves from the practices and ideologies of separatism and individual problems and solutions.
The Black community currently has developed a hybrid culture of Western and African origins. Although this mixing of culture is not in-it-of itself destructive, there must be a centrality of ideology which guides this mixing to become a cultural gumbo and not a cultural slop of ingredients that simply are incompatible and not complementing. I do not believe Pan-Africanism, Culture Nationalism, Liberation Theology, Feminism and the likes are the ideological point of centrality that we must adopt however I believe they are all reference points in developing a new ideology, along with Racio-misogyny, that will ultimately bring forth the continued liberation of Black people and humanity.
Racio-Misogyny in the Black Community - Part 1
Written by Angelo Pinto
It is a response piece I wrote a week ago to this blog that was sent to me. The blog is from a woman writing about racio-mysogyn. A new way of looking at Black womens particular issues that are and preventing ourselves from understanding from traditional feminism. I often engage in the conversations about Black people. It is my sincere desire that within the context of these conversations Black people as a collective are empowered to address our unique dilemmas. Our dedication to the larger collective must be encapsulated in an innovative approach to our present condition. Dedication alone is not sufficient, as knowledge alone will also not suffice.
Before diving into the deep and fierce current of Black relationships I will first say that there are countless Black relationships that have survived the various systems of oppression we historically have endured. In our efforts to correct our present circumstance we must always identify our strength. It is from that point where we can locate a foundation by which to move forward. Additionally, we must be very aware that when looking for our success it is often that it will not be found or displayed in main stream culture but within the context of our intimate family that traditionally never receive recognition. Beginning a critique from the point of weakness often will create a sprit of confusion, disillusion, and contempt of each other. It is with the knowledge of our successful ancestors and elders in creating successful Black Family and Community that we have a baseline to improve upon. I am forever indebted.
Black Men/Women and a Collective Confusion
My mothers struggle is my struggle, my sister’s struggle is my struggle, my wife’s struggle is my struggle. This is in fact the reality for Black men today acknowledged or not. There is a segment of our community that has been engaged in behavior that is often counter productive with respect to one another. It would be uncritical of the dominate culture to ignore the reality that some Black men and women have adopted behavior that is imposing the practice of racism and sexism on one another. Many practices have been identified as the source of this confusion, however the truth remains that these are merely byproducts of the root of this behavior which is firmly entrenched in slavery, the history of white supremacy, and western practices about gender and imperialism.
The destructive views that Black men and women have in regard to one another can be found in the mass media and popular cultures portrayals of who we are. One only has to take a brief look at the history of Black men and women and Hollywood and many of the ways we treat each other can be found their. From Mammy to Jezebel or from the Big Black Buck to Rastus the derogatory images about who we are have a clear point of origin that we must identify and dismantle. Additionally, we must be swift and thorough in this dismantling. Which mean Tyler Perry must be held accountable as Lil Wayne should. Tyra Banks should be held accountable as Beyonce should. However, this accountability must be accurate. These four individuals progress in their respective arenas should be recognized. The critique of which should not be rooted in “western values” of “morality” and so called “decency”. (i.e. wearing a suit while you buy sell and capture slaves who are deemed “inhumane” and “uncivilized” because they are not clothed and do not move within the parameters of western etiquette and religious modesty.) Simply put before we discuss Lil Wayne’s use of improper English prose we should recognize that “slang” is a perfectly viable language. Before we say Tyler Perry is cooning, we should recognize that he has the ability to provide a venue where you might see Mammy but you see countless other positive Black images. Critically we can say to Lil Wayne we will not accept your lyrics that may be derogatory or say to Tyler Perry lets phase most if not all of these derogatory images. Truthfully, as we do this it is of optimal importance that we target the systems that perpetuate these images. It may be useful to address individuals in some context however when addressing what has caused Black male and female imagery to be derogatory and hence erode black relationships we must take a systematic approach.
It is a response piece I wrote a week ago to this blog that was sent to me. The blog is from a woman writing about racio-mysogyn. A new way of looking at Black womens particular issues that are and preventing ourselves from understanding from traditional feminism. I often engage in the conversations about Black people. It is my sincere desire that within the context of these conversations Black people as a collective are empowered to address our unique dilemmas. Our dedication to the larger collective must be encapsulated in an innovative approach to our present condition. Dedication alone is not sufficient, as knowledge alone will also not suffice.
Before diving into the deep and fierce current of Black relationships I will first say that there are countless Black relationships that have survived the various systems of oppression we historically have endured. In our efforts to correct our present circumstance we must always identify our strength. It is from that point where we can locate a foundation by which to move forward. Additionally, we must be very aware that when looking for our success it is often that it will not be found or displayed in main stream culture but within the context of our intimate family that traditionally never receive recognition. Beginning a critique from the point of weakness often will create a sprit of confusion, disillusion, and contempt of each other. It is with the knowledge of our successful ancestors and elders in creating successful Black Family and Community that we have a baseline to improve upon. I am forever indebted.
Black Men/Women and a Collective Confusion
My mothers struggle is my struggle, my sister’s struggle is my struggle, my wife’s struggle is my struggle. This is in fact the reality for Black men today acknowledged or not. There is a segment of our community that has been engaged in behavior that is often counter productive with respect to one another. It would be uncritical of the dominate culture to ignore the reality that some Black men and women have adopted behavior that is imposing the practice of racism and sexism on one another. Many practices have been identified as the source of this confusion, however the truth remains that these are merely byproducts of the root of this behavior which is firmly entrenched in slavery, the history of white supremacy, and western practices about gender and imperialism.
The destructive views that Black men and women have in regard to one another can be found in the mass media and popular cultures portrayals of who we are. One only has to take a brief look at the history of Black men and women and Hollywood and many of the ways we treat each other can be found their. From Mammy to Jezebel or from the Big Black Buck to Rastus the derogatory images about who we are have a clear point of origin that we must identify and dismantle. Additionally, we must be swift and thorough in this dismantling. Which mean Tyler Perry must be held accountable as Lil Wayne should. Tyra Banks should be held accountable as Beyonce should. However, this accountability must be accurate. These four individuals progress in their respective arenas should be recognized. The critique of which should not be rooted in “western values” of “morality” and so called “decency”. (i.e. wearing a suit while you buy sell and capture slaves who are deemed “inhumane” and “uncivilized” because they are not clothed and do not move within the parameters of western etiquette and religious modesty.) Simply put before we discuss Lil Wayne’s use of improper English prose we should recognize that “slang” is a perfectly viable language. Before we say Tyler Perry is cooning, we should recognize that he has the ability to provide a venue where you might see Mammy but you see countless other positive Black images. Critically we can say to Lil Wayne we will not accept your lyrics that may be derogatory or say to Tyler Perry lets phase most if not all of these derogatory images. Truthfully, as we do this it is of optimal importance that we target the systems that perpetuate these images. It may be useful to address individuals in some context however when addressing what has caused Black male and female imagery to be derogatory and hence erode black relationships we must take a systematic approach.
1
Written By Wynsters The Tigress
the carpet in the hallway was so thick that i can barely hear my own footsteps as i approach your door. the hotel itself is quite nice, nicer than most that i've been to. you take a few moments to answer my knock, though fair to say, i'm not the loudest of knockers. you look as you usually do -- neat, settled. you greet me with the smile that i've come to cherish. i walk in and you give me the "grand" tour. your hand is gently placed at the small of my back as you show me the view, the nice towels, the great big bathtub. you make me laugh as you demonstrate how soft the bed is. i have a thing for bouncy beds, although i'm pretty sure i've yet to share that fact with you. i take my coat off and make myself at home. you've always made me feel comfortable. my day has been pretty stressful and i'm looking forward to spending some time with you. i step into the bathroom. i wash my hands and splash some water on my face. as i dry off, i realize a splash of nervousness has settled itself in the pit of my stomach. it surprises me and i'm not sure what to think about that. i walk back out and you're laying on the bed, completely unaware that i've taken a moment to just...watch. i find you attractive, which you already know. you engage me in a way that holds my interest, a rarity for a mind like mine. a mind that's constantly on the go, unable to settle on just one thought. but you are all that i can think of now and i watch as you fiddle with the remote. i adjust my lean against the door and this catches your eye...you motion for me to join you on the bed.
the carpet in the hallway was so thick that i can barely hear my own footsteps as i approach your door. the hotel itself is quite nice, nicer than most that i've been to. you take a few moments to answer my knock, though fair to say, i'm not the loudest of knockers. you look as you usually do -- neat, settled. you greet me with the smile that i've come to cherish. i walk in and you give me the "grand" tour. your hand is gently placed at the small of my back as you show me the view, the nice towels, the great big bathtub. you make me laugh as you demonstrate how soft the bed is. i have a thing for bouncy beds, although i'm pretty sure i've yet to share that fact with you. i take my coat off and make myself at home. you've always made me feel comfortable. my day has been pretty stressful and i'm looking forward to spending some time with you. i step into the bathroom. i wash my hands and splash some water on my face. as i dry off, i realize a splash of nervousness has settled itself in the pit of my stomach. it surprises me and i'm not sure what to think about that. i walk back out and you're laying on the bed, completely unaware that i've taken a moment to just...watch. i find you attractive, which you already know. you engage me in a way that holds my interest, a rarity for a mind like mine. a mind that's constantly on the go, unable to settle on just one thought. but you are all that i can think of now and i watch as you fiddle with the remote. i adjust my lean against the door and this catches your eye...you motion for me to join you on the bed.
Sophisticated Gentleman: Nonchalant
Written By Kwesi D.
He could swing razors with a comparable degree of competence and he knew how to punch a torso sideways so as to take the wind out of it. This was knowledge that he shared with quite a few of his peers, but that was neither here nor there: For he had extracted himself from the process even before he understood how self-destructive it actually was and how murderous it was of his culture and the bloodlines that were sinking inside of it. He remembered being eighteen and in college, of all places, with salt in his eyes and vinegar in his mouth, always carrying around the feeling of wanting to batter something, walking on marble for the first time. He too had been battered in various ways, some of which he would not disclose, and wished to show as well as describe the sensation of being kicked in the mouth and stomped in the back by eleven or so designer sneakers. He remembered being eighteen and running around with a bunch of other loose youngsters who delighted in smoking bush and drinking vodka, and reciting lyrics to rap masterpieces late into the night. He remembered being eighteen and visiting the young women in the dorm rooms, recounting with much exaggeration the things that had transpired there and cursing, always cursing, loudly or in a murmur, defiantly or in amusement. He remembered being eighteen and roving across the terrain with the other young bulls in college, of all places, picking fights with others and sharing frustration on a plate.
And still he had managed to extract himself before he was fully aware that his was an old feeling, formed out of ingredients that had merged somewhere in the belly of a ship to make an explosion with a big bang. Cultivated over time, it was transplanted from dingy building walls to ivied stone gates, where the unwelcome were greeted with a handshake and a smile and an expectation of a stay that would not outlast the year. There, outside the city limits, the misguided young bulls entangled themselves and stepped hoof-first into every ensnarement that had been carefully laid out for them. It was the nature of the time within which he lived, a period that demanded stealth and quick-wittedness and perseverance and on top of that, called for luck, lots and lots of luck: For he had only missed by pinches the fate that would be doled out to the others – attendees at institutions of a different sort. And now even that unfortunate lot would claim him a success because there was parchment with his name on it, and letters for which he would owe a fee for many years to come. How could he disagree with them? He did not delude himself with any misplaced feelings of self-importance or blindly blame them for their circumstances. He was just in a daze really; sitting at a bar with some comely woman, smelling expensive perfume and the cigar smoke rise, staring blankly at the athletes darting across the plasma screen, hearing the latest hip hop music play, lifting a glass of vodka to take that perfunctory sip, noticing the diamonds shine, and never thinking, refusing to think.
He could swing razors with a comparable degree of competence and he knew how to punch a torso sideways so as to take the wind out of it. This was knowledge that he shared with quite a few of his peers, but that was neither here nor there: For he had extracted himself from the process even before he understood how self-destructive it actually was and how murderous it was of his culture and the bloodlines that were sinking inside of it. He remembered being eighteen and in college, of all places, with salt in his eyes and vinegar in his mouth, always carrying around the feeling of wanting to batter something, walking on marble for the first time. He too had been battered in various ways, some of which he would not disclose, and wished to show as well as describe the sensation of being kicked in the mouth and stomped in the back by eleven or so designer sneakers. He remembered being eighteen and running around with a bunch of other loose youngsters who delighted in smoking bush and drinking vodka, and reciting lyrics to rap masterpieces late into the night. He remembered being eighteen and visiting the young women in the dorm rooms, recounting with much exaggeration the things that had transpired there and cursing, always cursing, loudly or in a murmur, defiantly or in amusement. He remembered being eighteen and roving across the terrain with the other young bulls in college, of all places, picking fights with others and sharing frustration on a plate.
And still he had managed to extract himself before he was fully aware that his was an old feeling, formed out of ingredients that had merged somewhere in the belly of a ship to make an explosion with a big bang. Cultivated over time, it was transplanted from dingy building walls to ivied stone gates, where the unwelcome were greeted with a handshake and a smile and an expectation of a stay that would not outlast the year. There, outside the city limits, the misguided young bulls entangled themselves and stepped hoof-first into every ensnarement that had been carefully laid out for them. It was the nature of the time within which he lived, a period that demanded stealth and quick-wittedness and perseverance and on top of that, called for luck, lots and lots of luck: For he had only missed by pinches the fate that would be doled out to the others – attendees at institutions of a different sort. And now even that unfortunate lot would claim him a success because there was parchment with his name on it, and letters for which he would owe a fee for many years to come. How could he disagree with them? He did not delude himself with any misplaced feelings of self-importance or blindly blame them for their circumstances. He was just in a daze really; sitting at a bar with some comely woman, smelling expensive perfume and the cigar smoke rise, staring blankly at the athletes darting across the plasma screen, hearing the latest hip hop music play, lifting a glass of vodka to take that perfunctory sip, noticing the diamonds shine, and never thinking, refusing to think.
The Beggars + 2:12 am
Written By Kwame Carter
The Beggars
Outside the tent
on cracks of clay,
A year of life is lost
in a wooden bowl,
allowing them
to zip in,
then zip
back upon her face
grazing as if full.
Amazed,
she gives the bowl
a thorough lick,
as if to convince.
Still they come,
tiny beggars
of this spare.
2:12am
when you knock I will hold the screen
and hand only, a breath within my night
cause you lean on my voice
why still? Cannot be sure.
Cousin, this sphere's weighted issues;
it will pull from your tombs.
Why still? Below might drum
"Decades!" but voiced, is self's milieu
and by your face, we will sum.
-But here, accept this tempted glare
lifting our distance to father's eyes
(that face rising throbbing on my throat
it is shivering squeezing in my skin)
but voice buckles under immediacy
never realizing.
I will stroke on your death-face
one summed
but like before turn with
my futile hands away.
The Beggars
Outside the tent
on cracks of clay,
A year of life is lost
in a wooden bowl,
allowing them
to zip in,
then zip
back upon her face
grazing as if full.
Amazed,
she gives the bowl
a thorough lick,
as if to convince.
Still they come,
tiny beggars
of this spare.
2:12am
when you knock I will hold the screen
and hand only, a breath within my night
cause you lean on my voice
why still? Cannot be sure.
Cousin, this sphere's weighted issues;
it will pull from your tombs.
Why still? Below might drum
"Decades!" but voiced, is self's milieu
and by your face, we will sum.
-But here, accept this tempted glare
lifting our distance to father's eyes
(that face rising throbbing on my throat
it is shivering squeezing in my skin)
but voice buckles under immediacy
never realizing.
I will stroke on your death-face
one summed
but like before turn with
my futile hands away.
The Empath
Written By Felicia York
She loved him in the days where love had been replaced with receptors and transmitters; neurological synapses that conveyed meaning without feeling. The humans elected not to feel long ago as emotion caused many of the crimes they experienced in the past. Separating themselves into groups, they were the entities and empaths. Entities ate in order to fuel their bodies, they slept when fatigue plagued them, they had sex to procreate and they flourished. The pursuit of pleasure, the attempt to appease their ego was kept at a minimum. There was antiseptic peace among them.
Shyra felt differently, electing to become an empath. Empath communities were spread throughout the colony of New York City. Hiding in the depths of the municipality, they struggled to keep the relic institutions of their old lives in tact. Schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, hospitals and other empath-only businesses were kept in the darkness as they were targeted and systematically disenfranchised. Entities hated what they stood for and wanted them dead. The death of an empath was taken lightly for empaths were seen as weak; the last of the species anyway and any attempt to shorten their existence was secretly applauded.
And in the midst of the calculated chaos, Shyra loved him, an entity. She knew it was foolish to believe that he could even begin to love a man like him. Still, she offered herself to him in the bowels of the night hoping that he could love her back, wanting something that he could not give her. In the light of the Sun, she passed for one of them – an entity. In the evening, she wept at his feet cursing at what she’d allowed herself to become – need and clingy, wanted something of this man he was not able to give.She would need to choose to become an entity or live her life feeling the aftermath of living without her love.
She had resolved to let it all go. She was sick of being a slave to a system that was stacked against humanity and so, she would do something inhumane. She needed to break free. The air was crisp and fresh up there where they stood. The moon loomed over them imposing on her last moments with him. The clouds were dark and gray watching her shame. Her wild curly hair flew in her face sticking to the tears that fell from her eyes. “This hurts,” she said as he looked at her motionless. “Bottling your emotions is a double-edged sword,” she said as she washed his blood from her hands. In that moment, it all made sense. She would get through the initial shock of having no emotions but she would get used to it. She would become what she hated the most: an entity. It was fitting, she thought, “Victimizer becoming victim. Besides, in the end, we all become what we hate the most.” She flung the hair from her face ready to walk into her new day strong.
She loved him in the days where love had been replaced with receptors and transmitters; neurological synapses that conveyed meaning without feeling. The humans elected not to feel long ago as emotion caused many of the crimes they experienced in the past. Separating themselves into groups, they were the entities and empaths. Entities ate in order to fuel their bodies, they slept when fatigue plagued them, they had sex to procreate and they flourished. The pursuit of pleasure, the attempt to appease their ego was kept at a minimum. There was antiseptic peace among them.
Shyra felt differently, electing to become an empath. Empath communities were spread throughout the colony of New York City. Hiding in the depths of the municipality, they struggled to keep the relic institutions of their old lives in tact. Schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, hospitals and other empath-only businesses were kept in the darkness as they were targeted and systematically disenfranchised. Entities hated what they stood for and wanted them dead. The death of an empath was taken lightly for empaths were seen as weak; the last of the species anyway and any attempt to shorten their existence was secretly applauded.
And in the midst of the calculated chaos, Shyra loved him, an entity. She knew it was foolish to believe that he could even begin to love a man like him. Still, she offered herself to him in the bowels of the night hoping that he could love her back, wanting something that he could not give her. In the light of the Sun, she passed for one of them – an entity. In the evening, she wept at his feet cursing at what she’d allowed herself to become – need and clingy, wanted something of this man he was not able to give.She would need to choose to become an entity or live her life feeling the aftermath of living without her love.
She had resolved to let it all go. She was sick of being a slave to a system that was stacked against humanity and so, she would do something inhumane. She needed to break free. The air was crisp and fresh up there where they stood. The moon loomed over them imposing on her last moments with him. The clouds were dark and gray watching her shame. Her wild curly hair flew in her face sticking to the tears that fell from her eyes. “This hurts,” she said as he looked at her motionless. “Bottling your emotions is a double-edged sword,” she said as she washed his blood from her hands. In that moment, it all made sense. She would get through the initial shock of having no emotions but she would get used to it. She would become what she hated the most: an entity. It was fitting, she thought, “Victimizer becoming victim. Besides, in the end, we all become what we hate the most.” She flung the hair from her face ready to walk into her new day strong.
An Old Friend
Written by Nefertiti N.
Not too long ago I ran into an old acquaintance. Back in the day she was radiant, beautiful, her dark mocha skin a finishing touch to a work of fine art. There was confidence in the sparkle in her eyes...and why not? Men and women could not help but stare...her womanly hips and perfectly proportioned body swayed provocatively as she walked...she was beauty, and beauty was her.
We smiled at each other as I approached, and as I hugged my old friend I felt my heart grow heavy. She talked of the struggles that black people face, the injustice, the various grassroot movements against police brutality, against racism, and for freedom...true freedom. I nodded in agreement and listened intently to this intelligent, beautiful young woman who had been ravaged by life. Her clothes hung off her thin frame, haggard and worn, and her unkempt hair peeked out from underneath a multi-colored scarf. She was embarrassed, as she fidgeted with her hair and mentioned that she needed to get it done. I smiled and made small talk to put her at ease as she stared at me intently as if to ascertain my sincerity...
As we parted I hugged her tightly, as if doing so would change something...I desperately needed to believe that something would change...
I have thought about her often since then, and about my brothers and sisters weaving through oppression, the after-effects of oppression, the socio-economic, psychological, ongoing oppression that has seemingly morphed into an untouchable monster of a machine that no one dare point at let alone face...
Not too long ago I ran into an old acquaintance. Back in the day she was radiant, beautiful, her dark mocha skin a finishing touch to a work of fine art. There was confidence in the sparkle in her eyes...and why not? Men and women could not help but stare...her womanly hips and perfectly proportioned body swayed provocatively as she walked...she was beauty, and beauty was her.
We smiled at each other as I approached, and as I hugged my old friend I felt my heart grow heavy. She talked of the struggles that black people face, the injustice, the various grassroot movements against police brutality, against racism, and for freedom...true freedom. I nodded in agreement and listened intently to this intelligent, beautiful young woman who had been ravaged by life. Her clothes hung off her thin frame, haggard and worn, and her unkempt hair peeked out from underneath a multi-colored scarf. She was embarrassed, as she fidgeted with her hair and mentioned that she needed to get it done. I smiled and made small talk to put her at ease as she stared at me intently as if to ascertain my sincerity...
As we parted I hugged her tightly, as if doing so would change something...I desperately needed to believe that something would change...
I have thought about her often since then, and about my brothers and sisters weaving through oppression, the after-effects of oppression, the socio-economic, psychological, ongoing oppression that has seemingly morphed into an untouchable monster of a machine that no one dare point at let alone face...
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