I often wonder why,
People do not like me,
“You’re happiness offends me,
You challenge concepts,
You cannot be,”
And I wonder too,
What must they do,
When I weave roses through my hair and do,
A dance across the living room,
In rainbow crochet braids,
Or a violet afro hairdo,
And they say,
“You can’t do these things
This can’t be you.
Boohoo black girl,
Boohoo, that is all you’re good for,
That is all you should do,
And I laugh,
Cause I’m the original petty,
Softer than a brown little teddy,
In my teddy,
Getting ready for a night out,
Or the lights out,
With the right mouth,
But I digress,
Because my happiness can show in every breath.
My sorrow raises seas,
My pain rattles the breeze,
My love topples mountains,
My wit so sharp I.Q takers are still counting,
And where I walk the ground splits open,
Head held high to do more than just coping,
The trees bare fruit and you hear satyrs on the lute,
And Yemaya and Oya and Hera,
Because black freedom ain’t just one thing.
It’s cosmic tonic curing wounds,
And making them,
And taking them,
Bedazzled in lisa frank,
Or leaving nothing to imagination,
But the bones.
Black girl magic to be caring and carefree,
A cosmic swimmer of femininity,
A cosmic start that’ll forever be,
Brown, black, and beautiful as an open smiling sea,
So what must those people think of me?
After all aren’t most people afraid of eternity?
Being an alternative black girl in any way shape or form results in critics. It’s not us being over sensitive. It isn’t that we’re all lying, as some suggest. It’s the fact that people are afraid of black women. Across the world we’ve been through that which would break most, and we survive. Wounded and hurting, we survive. Men think they’re entitled to us, other men want to degrade us, and use excuses to justify their internalized racism. Women openly mock us while copying our hair, our nails, and the features that once landed black women in zoos and keeps so many from not being on magazines or billboards. We’ve been taught to hate each other and be suspect. The world has been taught to put us in a box, to keep us oppressed and control what the very concept of blackness is or should be.
And we laugh in their faces, and as more and more soft, original, punk, afro-centric, nerdy, geeky, brilliant, and beautifully soul’d black women support each other we’ll just laugh harder. We’re not black enough? I make my own blackness, and how dare they try to define it for me or anyone else. I’ll put color in my hair, I’ll read my comics, dress up as She-Hulk, write my stories, read about technology, date a white, date an asian boy, date whomever I please, and all the while I’m still black.
All the while I and all the other black girls who embrace themselves and their loves are still cosmic.
*Artist will be tagged on request…namely because google won’t back search