To love me

I’ve been thinking about women like myself. Women of African descent. A number of things have occurred to me about our “plight” and I think I have narrowed it down to a few statements.

  1. Whatever and wherever we are depicted, we must be the lusty cunning seductress, compelled to reveal our plump breasts for the viewers secret masturbatory reference.
  2. In stories we may be allowed intelligence but can never be intellectual, skilled but never creative, honest and dumb, devoted and loyal and ready to comply with the wishes of the demanding authority.
  3. The entertainment industry would have you believe that there is no greater challenge humanity can give itself than to love a black woman. She cannot be given the experience of being the object of true unadulterated love – not lust, love. No one is allowed to pursue her for his/her heart. No one bears the familiar heartache for her companionship, for her attention, for her heart.
  4. According to many, the anger that we bear in our hearts will always keep us far away from honor and self respect. Our fear of personal harm will always overcome any notion of loyalty, and our self loathing will culminate in blatant disrespect and damaging language towards one another.
  5. We are forced into pop culture’s chosen caricatures of ourselves, causing surprise when our behavior is different, called to order when we demand respect that easily comes to others, violently silenced when we cry for our voices to be heard.

I will always write about and write for black women.

Nothing I’d rather be

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