She by She

Black Women are the kryptonite of the establishment.

We aren’t the socially superior. They only want the colorful, creative, Nicki Minaj voice over tik toks, cornrows, and asses minus oppression. Their oppression. We aren’t the femininely fair. Not willowy milky white or sweet, untouchable, and shiny. Our sun swathed skin and strong bodies the manifestation of our ancestors. Our bodies the result of having to fight instead of being loved, to toil instead of being bathed in coconut milk and manuka honey, and to assert in order to win, as it’s not our birthright in America. That was stolen from us. Both our bodies and our wins deemed unfair and unearned.

They will place rules on your
body, say it’s a distraction from
their game,
as if they know better than you
how your bones should wear your own body

Jessica Mans, Serena

Descendants of Maat, Lady Justice. But they don’t know justice. She is disguised by a blindfold and drapes of fabric hiding the body as if it’s femininity cannot coexist with its power and it’s genderless to negate the male gaze. Adorned in purity and holding balance in her hands, she is a source of false imagery not represented in reality. Yet, we live in this feigned utopia, where Black billionaires are bred… but even billionaires are Black. Still nigga. Justice, the epitome of who we are, doesn’t live here.

Your daughter’s face is a small riot, her hands are & civil war, a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things but God, doesn’t she wear
the world well.

Waran Shire, Ugly

Gods and Goddesses. Queen and Kings. Mermaids and Mermen. The ancestors are of the spirit, swathed in royalty, and some even live under the sea. We are fluid. From our native land to the belly of the boat. Middle Passage. From our living room to our roof. Katrina. From the foamy river to our drinking glasses. The Flint River. The ghost of Queen Makeda walks through the 8th Ward. Oshun withholds and calls back the waters in plagued bodies. Yemaya, mermaid goddess, protects & swims the seven seas. The granddaughter of Poseidon welcomes any who prefer the ocean floor to the plantation.

When they tell the Black girl
She can’t play play mermaid ask them, what their people know
about holding their breath
underwater. About giving their bodies
to the current

Jasmine Mans, The Little Mermaid

We are unicorns. Our horns antennas to the heavens so we can dial into James, Maya, Frederick, and Sojourner. Our bodies stallionesque. Thick like Luke dancers. Legs strong enough to walk the Serengeti. Angel wings and rainbows, myths and legends. But like our music, our art, our minds, even our mythology is covered in the darkness of hatred. Superior yet inferior. Greater but lesser. Not fly despite their wingspan. Not colorful despite Mr. Crayola. Not a unicorn, just Mr. Ed. But we are not defined by their definitions. We determine who we are… our ancestors passed our identity down to us: braids, curls, bodies, color, soul, spirits, and magic.

The black unicorn is restless
the black unicorn is unrelenting
the black unicorn is not

Audre Lorde, The Black Unicorn

We hold the key to our freedom!

One comment

  1. Annetta · September 20



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