The most recent social media challenge…The for the D(ick)/P(ussy)…has usual quickly made it to ‘viral’ status where many women and men of different cultures, languages, status and hues…declared what the would do or not do for The D. There were thankfully a few self-righteous ones who pretend a rebellion against the effect of social media on everyday lives by making their own ‘For the…’challenge subsisting Dick for daughter or degree…’clap dem lawd me heart full fi dem!’ As although they got a nice soapbox they are still doing the challenge.
A conversation with my lover, let’s call him ‘D’, this morning took on a deep way off angle…women have been doing for the D for ages…long before this retarding challenge. As this morning the presence of my ancestors sat with me…I could almost remember the experience of slavery.
The white man wasn’t after the talents of the black woman…he was primarily after the strength and power of the black man. The width of his back…the strength if his arms…the power in his legs and the fertility of his loins. The black woman was a consolation prize and there-in for the black D we toiled. Slave women endured a lot for the D and perhaps still do today as the system hasn’t much changed.
I washed for the D…stinking raw white man clothes for the D
I stole food for the D…put backra to sleep early for the D…2 minutes or less n him asleep…wake up with big smile ah grin him teeth…maybe the whip won’t Crack so hard for this week.
I bet it’s hardly possible to have who you are known to be fully overhauled by a total different persona. When glances in the mirror reveal the same face but different experiences and values…night and day. Where the initial act of questioning who you are, where you are and what you are doing leads to a snowball effect of changes…unstoppable avalanche, where with the passage of years is now still…180 degrees it is all different.
I feel lost at times…as if Dorothy woke up and it truly isn’t Kansas…anymore. Now it’s the width of bicepts that excite me, silently thrilled at the notion of being owned and provided for by another…a man. And not so much the strong one with all the solutions providing for every one. No longer a dominatrix, it’s servitude and submission that turns me on.
A total 180 and not so sure what to do
You wouldn’t know how it pains my heart…No like really and truly hurt me soul to see some women allow so bwoy to treat them like shit, when dem a gold..have them as booty calls or in arguments with other women about their irresponsibility.
Cut me yuh see no blood fi see dem good body, tight pussy, pretty gyal weh a do di most fi please dem man a get side tackle by some ah dem man weh nave no ambition. All mi tripe dem twist…mi fist dem mi haffi grip doan know which one a dem fi get di first lick. If a di foofool boy when nuh see seh woman fi treat better dan dat or a di ediot gyal weh nuhbody never ah show har her worth from day one.
He’s a deadbeat cuz if we don’t change them, they wont change. Men are tools, women are the contractor!
So girls dis is the management mi want unuh fi unda!
Woman fi know dem value…
…ah you have di good pussy
…ah yuh know how fi treat di man
…ah yuh give him everything yuh have from it can reach inna yuh hand
…nuh you say cook and clean and wash fi yuh man?
…nuh you say wine and flip and entertain di man, yuh nuh back from bedroom position?
Mek a bwoy move to the curb if him naw treat u how u deserve!
Dont tek it another day…the loneliness will go away.
Its your responsibility to be happy…sadness never have nutn but bitterness yet…and bitterness and failure ah friend…dem walk wid depression too.
Only gyal weh nave no ambition stay inna miserable situations…lift up outa dat mi sister! Cares ZERO whoo waa whisper!
Today I had a profound milestone in my relationship. He told me he wanted me to be honest and that he could handle the truth. AND, I looked into his eyes and believed and for a split second I felt the weight fall off my shoulders…as if the entire planet’s need to be honest was just validated. The fear of the repercussions of truth no longer bind us…our finger nails not worn down by the stress of where this will go, as we steadily and wearily push parts of each truth, anticipating the breaking point.
He’s such a beautiful soul. Falling short of many people’s expectations and indeed of his own aspirations…he is a beautiful soul. If my sensibilities allowed, I would even say he is the perfect man…I have not seen violence from him..even in situations where violence would be a preferred reaction, he is always cool and collected, all the while still caring. Perhaps it is too, that I never ever imagined myself here…with a man…why the sign of anything too permanent freaks me, yet still he holds me steady. In 2 years we have had many scenarios where he should have left, but he never left. He loves my daughter and considers her his own, but most beautiful is how much she loves him. Another amazing thing about this man, is even when he is piss-mad or should be piss-mad, he has my back and is always there for me, he is the first one to make up even if he’s not the one that’s wrong. I often wonder if he is real or is his game just strong. Then again game for what…
I am not the easiest to deal with. My life situation is also not the sweetest, my bank account is empty and too many times I will need a lift. He pulls me up, he motivates me, and has never encouraged me wrong…he provides for me…he cooks for me. He blesses me.
used to be my CC…now my forever D
Forever tied to my African.
The first man and woman.
Once you are Black you are Black…melanin poisoning…a white man can be traced back to black…but a black man is always black.
I’m forever tied to my African.
My hips remember the moves…my soul still recognizes it’s cues. If only we can remember the path of our ancestors…the places we’ve been…the things we’ve seen, how important it is to acknowledge that we are kings and queens. Regain our pride with the memories of our motherland inside…allowing our ancestors to be our guide.
Forever tied to the African…stop being a part of this confusion…contusion…illusion. Remember our customs of love, respect and the eternal union.
Forever an African
We have to take care of ourselves. Ourselves outlast family and fake friends…highs and lows…wins and losses….life and deaths.
We have to take care of ourselves and first.
I was told this in the past by many angels passing thru my life…I didn’t understand what it meant…couldn’t fathom how it could be that I should first love me, and on my journeys from lives to deaths…through losses and wins and ofcourse the many fake friends….it took me a really really ridiculously longtime to see that at first it’s critical that I take care of me.
So this morning I looked at myself in the mirror and came to the realization that I really love me. As I am alone with no distractions no one or thing needing my attention or inspiration.. I began to talk to me. We’ve been through some raas, you and me, but there’s no way can I deny how much I love me. Perhaps I feel like I still need to give reverence to the girl who cared too much about everyone’s circumstances and dreams while really and truly right now I am a woman who only cares about herself and my family.
Don’t feel too bad if I don’t listen to your trauma or don’t come with my shoulder to cry on. When you are at worst and I ignore your calls please understand I have nothing to offer you at all. Don’t call me when you are blue…I’ll have nothing that makes sense to say to you. Call me when you have figured your way through…call me so we can review the battleground get through another round to win and gain…do not call me with pain…call me when you have found the will to fight again. Because that’s where I’m at.
We have to care of ourselves so we can win.. grow…gain.
I’ve felt my mother’s pain
Borne my mother’s shame
Stood beside her as she held her shoulders high while whispering to me to do the same.
From that perspective I painfully realised that there are just some paths a woman cannot deny…and although this same path i tried to avoid…it found me anyway holding me ransom for life.
I thought by will I could escape the same fate I saw my mother n other women face. not the weight of the 50 pounds I gained for the 9 months I bore to see the 8lbs 4oz of her…but the despair I saw in their eyes…the way they watered beneath their evolved crust. the way some smiled and tried to keep their children together all the time behind closed doors crying, the magic of love…the beauty of trust…absent…there for an opaque moment like billows of smoke…slowing dissipating…vanishing as if it were your imagination.
Confused not sure who to hate or who to blame…I find myself behind closed doors crying again and again…one year..two years…3 years…four…the pain is as strong as it was the day before. no aspirin no pain killa no other nigga can erase the history of your face…ur lies…the disgrace. I often wonder what it will take. how do I manage this juxtaposed hate.
I love my daughter but I curse the day he was born
A thief of the most destructive kind.
Stealing My innocence…my fairytale…my family…my attempt at exemplary motherhood.
I think I’m finally there. I think I have finally given up. Laying here, forced into rest…I decide to let go and listen to all the songs with haunting memories of my various broken hearts and punctured memories. I let them wash over me…finally… Allowing these ghosts their haunts. I realise now that there was truly so much pain…so good am I in locking them out and appearing to move on by removing them far from my reality with drastic adjunct crazy acts.
Some may consider it bravery but in fact it is profound cowardice…yellow belly fear of feeling, loving…being human…hurting. As I rested, listened music I liked…played with the love of my life…i realised on another dimension….i am not who i was, i can no longer be who i am. I love her…without a way to turn back.
I am feeling this sweet peace. I want you to feel it too….this sweet cool peace. I think I’ve finally given up. I’ve felt enough of that pain at your hands, burned by the way you handle my heart. My cheeks no longer need the hot lava of my tears screaming: I told you so’s and I should’ve knowns.
I’ve given up and its good. Like the plateau you hit when sailing is smooth, the perfect moment when everything is right, a magical moment. I get it now…sometimes you have to just surrender. Love what you love…do what you do…find your peace and your path as is in inside you. I give up, but I wont be nobody’s fool. I am fierce, courageous and loved, I am mommy.
Each time our souls meet…it feels like home…I hug and hold you, feeling your pain, listening to your memories. All the time wondering how you did it….truly the kind of superman you are to me. Still be sane after feeling so much pain. I preempt your fear. I hold you through it. Listening to it pumping through your veins…I understand it because its now almost driving me insane…my own pain…pushing through my own veins. Let me hold you…please, promise to hold me too…and be true
Imagine that through our pain, if we hold each other tight enough with nothing but pure love, long enough, strong enough… We may make magic, and figure the chemical composition of joy…figure how to heal…love would be real…again.
It’s Tuesday. Work was inspiring. Desperate but simple wishes were granted, my daughter was overjoyed to see me, and my home was filled with warm, loving and supporting family and friends. My niece is not feeling herself, and my dreamy dialogue under the stars of millions and life is interrupted by screams of pain from my niece.
Its awful. Madison is asleep and as I take turns at comforting my niece. I am confounded, in pain and confused…what is this kind of love.
This kind of love makes you physically feel her pain almost before she
does. It seems. This kind of love stares at her for what feels like forever…studying the very contours of her baby skin, marvelling at the miracle of tiny toes and the most beautiful smile without teeth. This kinda love leaves me in awe. Breathless. Afraid. Empowered. Purposed. This kind of love leaves me in shock. I never knew that there was anything that existed as intense as this kind of love.