#TEATIME

Things I Want to Tell You, Before You're a Hashtag

7/07/2016

I laid crying in the arms of a black man this morning. A black man whose existence I'm worried about being snatched away from him like the 114 others this year, alone. A number I'm sure may increase by the time I finish this post, because that's how frequently this is happening. I cried thinking about his well-being, along with the well-being of my black brother, my black friends and my black nephews. I am both infuriated and sad at the disregard for black life, in a space that was created on the backs of black people. And with this level of sadness and my shattered heart struggling to beat, I find it necessary to uplift. While I want to mobilize and set things ablaze, yelling obscenities until my throat gets sore, I want to continue to use my words to inspire. Still, somehow, with these emotions festering inside of me - emotions of hatred and bitterness toward those constantly striking us, that I struggled this morning to pray away - I want to be as much of a light as I can.

So today I want to tell you I love you and I care for you. That when the world can't stand the sight of you, I think you're beautiful. I think you're handsome. I think your being is delightfully unignorable. I think your life is valued and the purpose of it, invaluable. I want to tell you that you are the light and no matter how dark they want you to believe you are because of your skin, they'll never have enough power [read: white privilege] to dim that.

I want to tell you that while the rest of the world hates you, hates us, that you must choose to love yourself. That you must stand for your existence. I really want to tell you to be bold in your blackness. Be unapologetic about your history and your culture. To remind yourself and others of your kingdom/queendom. To remember that your story is made of far more riches than they want you to believe. I want to tell you that Jesus wasn't a white man with blue eyes, that he looks more like us than them. I want to tell you it's not an us versus them (but then I'd be lying). I want to tell you to teach your children our true origin – our true significance in this world – so they know the mark they can make. So they know the power they hold. 

I want to tell you that your rage is okay. That your reactions are justified. That I am right with you. All of you. Furious, frustrated and fearful of the future of myself and my black men. I want to tell you to hug your black children tight tonight, and every night thereafter. To hug your black husbands, boyfriends, and exes; fathers, brothers, and uncles; nephews, cousins and best friends. To band together as black people, wanting to see change, willing to work to enforce that change. To not burn sh*t up with the torch you just lit. 

I want to tell you how sick, sad and disgusted I am at the America we occupy in 2016; that police brutality [read: police murdering black folk] is the new form of legal lynching. I want to tell you that despite this, it will get better. That you'll be okay. That it won't – it can't – happen to you. That you're safe. That you're protected. That I'll protect you. 

 I want to tell you all these things and so much more, but I cannot, because I cannot stop crying. 

• 0 Comments

• Share:

#TEATIME

My Black, My Truth

6/22/2016

I struggled for a long time with deciding to change my target audience. Perhaps I could relate my posts and experiences to all women and not just black women. Every woman needs empowerment – right? These thoughts rang over and over in my head as I plotted out a new path for DEAR QUEENS.

Maybe I should change my focus. Write about things that everyone can relate to. I suggested that I utilize a more general perspective, instead of focusing on issues that are ever-present in black womanhood and black culture. Issues like black girls being magic, ignoring society's perceptions of our physical beauty, and using 'Lemonade' as an outlet to tell our own stories.

These thoughts even trickled into my real-life interactions – being able to connect better with my African American counterparts, than any others. Not because of any prejudice, but because of our similarities. Because of our stories. Because of the unignorable beauty of our culture and the connection we forge because of it. For much of my adult-life, I felt this to be a hindrance to the woman I'm trying to become, both in my purpose and in my professional life. Maybe I should try to relate more to others, even if it doesn't come naturally. But the more I dive into me, the more I realize this is who I am and I have to love it.

As important as it may be to empower every woman, I can not speak to every woman's experience, because, I, myself, am a black woman, with a black woman perspective – and this black woman journey is all I know.

To water down my truth in an attempt to appeal to a wider range of women would be doing a disservice to those who're constantly being unserved: black women. To change my black voice to one that fits the general population will mean losing my voice. The voice that encouraged me to create this outlet of inspiration. The voice that's been keeping this thing afloat. The voice that has provided the lessons and insight I lovingly share here. The voice that forms the words of this process and uses it to connect with others like me. The only voice I have. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black experience, my black journey – and every ounce of love and hate it may come with. I love how my melanin generates both great struggles and great triumphs. I love how my stories are not from a place of just womanhood, but of black womanhood and how unignorable that is. I love how my A.M.E Zion church is rooted in tradition. I love how my history – though heart-shattering – is synonymous with strength and rooted in perseverance and unity.  

I love how my red-toned skin tans. How my brown body looks in coral bathing suits and floral print sundresses. I love the dark brown freckles that grace my body in unforeseen places; and the darker brown beauty mark on my thigh. I love my lips, my nose, and my almond eyes. I love how my curves fill out jumpsuits, and how this lent its way to insight about street harassment. 

I love how black music, black art and black culture is used as a blueprint for what's "hot". I love how in the midst of its appropriation, black style cannot be mimicked. I love the creativity of my black counterparts and how we often turn our black trials into bold black testimonies. I love how my blackness cannot be avoided nor ignored – forcing me to accept and appreciate every inch of this blackness in ways that only other black bodies can understand. Can receive. Can wallow in. 

See, I love my blackness. I love my black life, my black struggles, and the journey of this thing called black womanhood. My blackness cannot be ignored, nor should my black voice be silenced. So, while appealing to a wider audience may be great, I love my blackness too much to water down my experience. I love it too much to water down yours too. We need these lessons in the brown skin context of which they come, and I will continue to provide them through these brown fingertips. 

There will be things we all can relate to, but there are some things that can only be shared through my black woman perspective. And I learned to be completely okay with that. 

• 0 Comments

• Share:

Black Girl Magic

Sorry Elle Magazine, #BlackGirlMagic is Real

1/13/2016

Not only was Elle Magazine's recent post about #BlackGirlMagic a disservice to black women, it was a disservice to the magazine that constantly appropriates black culture. Because knotty knots (bantu knots) and cornrows have never been your thing. 

What the writer failed to understand - or at least capture - is that #blackgirlmagic isn't about trying to appear superhuman, or invincible to life's occurrences, but it's our self-affirmation that despite these occurrences we are still powerful. It's a reminder that regardless of the mess constantly being thrown at us, this article included, we are here. We rise above every fire our black bodies are thrown into and come out alive. Thriving. Strengthened. So when we talk about #blackgirlmagic, we're often times talking about that resilience. That dedication to being more than the terrible portrayals on television or in movies. More than just the culture being stolen from us and put on magazines as "trends". More than just brown skinned and loud-mouthed.

#Blackgirlmagic is self-appreciation. It's not about constricting ourselves into the "strong black woman" mold, but about freeing ourselves from our day-to-day oppression. #Blackgirlmagic is our constant reminder that we are beautiful, resilient, powerful, gifted, worthy and with purpose - all things we wouldn't hear otherwise.

So black girl, despite what Elle Magazine or the white woman up the street says, we are magical. Not because we're superhuman but because in spite of all the evil being fed to our spirit, we still shine. We still light the way for many young black girls whose only image of blackness is the negative media they consume. We're magical because we continue to assert our power, despite how powerless society tends to make us feel. We're magical because our bold brown eyes are seeing visions and our brown fingertips are implementing them. We're magical because we continue to fight, no matter how many fists have battered our bloodied bodies we won't ever stop swinging. We're magical because we've changed the course of history with our resilience and strength when racial tensions were at its peak in this country. We're magical because we're willing to get up and do the grunt work when it's most important. When no one else wants to do it. We're magical because no matter how many articles are written or words are said that tear us down, we still find strength to stand up. To be bold. To be heard. To make it...without privilege. We're magical because no matter how hard they try, we won't let anyone steal that from us, and when they say "black girls aren't magical" we bind together and exclaim: YES WE ARE!

Society has stripped us of many things: our sons and husbands, our culture, even our lives, but you will not strip us of our magic.

Linda, just because you don't feel magical, doesn't mean we shouldn't.

• 0 Comments

• Share: