The Ancient Proverb Weekly Challenge – Erase

Proverb

This post is part of the Ancient Proverb Weekly Challenge. The quote is a Spanish Proverb and is inspiring to me because it reminds us that everyone makes mistakes, and that sometimes the second, third, or fourth time doing something can produce the better result. Writing then is not about doing it right every time, but being willing to start over and over again. About realizing that every time we are willing to get back up, we render failure powerless.

This challenge is being hosted by Lucille De Godoy’s Ancient Proverbs Weekly Challenge, be sure to head on over and check her out. 🙂

http://luciledegodoy.com/2014/11/10/proverbs-series-1/

Raking Leaves

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The trees are not ashamed of their nakedness. They have stepped out of their summer wear, short sleeved leaves that now lay idle upon the course concrete. Some have managed to fall upon the now stiff soil in hopes the dirt may integrate them back into the earth and they be born again by way of decomposition. But the winds will not give them rest, will not honor the time it takes for them to eventually disintegrate but will instead blow its breath against the now crackling foliage into my front yard. I have nothing against the leaves, but they should know that their friends have been here twice this week already and I am not apt to redeem them again. First of all, winter has showed up again on my Louisiana doorstep unannounced. It carries on the shoulders of the skies only black and whites and gray; a dull reminder that it is time for me to hibernate under the covers. I have bills to pay sure, but my boss doesn’t know that I have an uninvited guest this morning and will not be able to report to work. This is not about me though; this is about them…those dreadful leaves. I’m convinced they know what they’re doing. Like me, they wish only to escape the cold. They’ve spent enough time hanging out against the backdrop of tree bark long enough to know that darker colors are absorbers of light and thereby become better radiators of heat. For this reason they anxiously wait for me to assemble them into those big black garbage bags. Never mind that my face might fall off; that the frigid air will smack me across the head with its hand pulling my face along with it. And how would that look to the neighbors? A faceless woman fighting leaves on the front yard. They care nothing about this though, selfish leaves. They actually depend on my need to see color again. To do away with the browns and the grays and the blacks for just one more chance to see the sun play hide and seek upon the vibrant green of freshly cut grass—undisturbed by the ugly brown leaves sleeping in the back yard.

But today this will just have to suffice. I don’t feel like having to explain to my neighbors why I have no face. I am not yet ready to face the beat down I have coming to me for the chance to scrape up things that will just be here again 20 minutes after I am done. So now dear leaves run along now. Find someone else to pick on your bully’s. I am not your salvation today.

Stereotypes and Choices

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FYI: The images used in this post are Rated R per nudity.


When 20 year old Sara Baartman got on a boat that was to take her from Cape Town to London in 1810, she could not have known that she would never see her home again. Nor, as she stood on the deck and saw what had become her home disappear behind her, could she have known that she would become the icon of racial inferiority and black female sexuality for the next 100 years.

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Sarah “Saartjie” Baartman (before 1790 – 29 December 1815) was the most famous of at least two Khoikhoi women who were exhibited as freak show attractions in 19th century Europe under the name Hottentot Venus—“Hottentot” considered an offensive term, and “Venus” in reference to the Roman goddess of love. While in her teens, Saartje migrated to an area near Cape Town, where she was a farmer’s slave until she was bought in Cape Town by William Dunlop, a doctor on a British ship. At age 20, Saartje headed for London with Dr. Dunlop where, it was agreed, that they would get rich by displaying her body to Europeans; catering to the people’s’ sexual fascination with aboriginal peoples. Prancing in the nude, with her jutting posterior and extraordinary genitals, she provided the foundation for racist and pseudo-scientific theories regarding black inferiority and black female sexuality. The shows involved Saartje being “led by her keeper and exhibited like a wild beast, being obliged to walk, stand or sit as ordered.” Saartje’s predicament drew the attention of a young Jamaican, Robert Wedderburn, who was agitated against slavery and racism. Subsequently, his group pressured the attorney general to stop this circus. Losing the case on a technicality, Saartje spent four years in London and then went to Paris where she was exhibited in a traveling circus, and seen frequently controlled by an animal trainer in the show.

It was here that she crossed paths with George Cuvier, Napoleon’s surgeon-general, who was also considered to be the dean of comparative anatomy. In his capacity of social anthropologist, he arrogantly and erroneously concluded that she was the missing link. She turned to prostitution and when she died poor in 1816, almost immediately Cuvier had her body cast in wax, dissected and the skeleton articulated. Her organs, including her genitals and brains, were preserved in bottles of formaldehyde. Her remains were displayed at the Musée de L’Homme in Paris until as late as 1974.

“Stay on guard this wicked land will try to strip your soul… got our men selling blow our women on the stripper pole. Once your morals hit the floor do anything to pay the bills, 400 years still ain’t on the level playing field.”

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While one cannot control what is forced upon them, one can make the decision to choose a different path. While the treatment of Sara and the retaining of her body parts were horrific, we cannot neglect her choice to prostitute herself. We have all been in positions where we felt we did not have a choice, for struggle and oppression has a tendency to do away with all logic. But what I would like to remind us of today is the importance of not making excuses for those choices. There’s a difference between making a mistake and making a commitment to willfully do. Often we set out to blame outside forces for what we have become because we’ve been deceived into thinking we have no choice. This is not to judge the actions of Sara as a slave, but what we need to understand is that today many Black women are slaves and they are slaves without permission or coercion. There is little difference between Sara Baartman  and the current  Video Vixen. They are both slaves. Today, the Black woman’s mentality leaves her shackled to a  mental incapability of thinking outside of the way she was taught to do so within the physical institution of slavery. She cannot think independently on a physical, mental, or spiritual level outside of what her captives have taught her because of her unwillingness to take responsibility for her own ignorance.

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As a result, every time someone attempts to show the so called Black women the error of her ways she is apt to point to an instance, circumstance, person or persons outside of herself. She may very well bring up facts, but she is unable to see the role she plays to make manifest those statistics. It is always a situation where men have abused or disrespected her. It is always everyone else fault except hers. Either a man did it or the white man did it.  Many of the women seen on TV, such as the Niki Minaj’s are showing women examples of what it means to be a whore, to prostitute one’s body and to be proud of it. Sadly, many of you idolize these women. You sit back and you allow your little girls to be entertained by such filth. Beyonce is a married woman (allegedly) and yet she prances around the stage half naked and you think it’s cute. You do not teach your little girls about Proverb 31 women and about the Sara Baartman’s; you teach them about the Beyonces. As a result, many young women, crossing all ethnicity’s, grow up with aspirations to put basic morals and values on the back burner while they twerk.

The reality however is that everything is not a stereotype. It is not all a conspiracy. Abuse exists but there is still a choice we must begin to understand about the role we play in deception. It’s not always about deception, but it is also about our willingness to be deceived.

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She Rebels

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Soft kisses and warm hugs is what she gets from men.
Hot dates and perfume smells, but from truth she rebels.
An emotional roller coaster ride he takes her…
every so often they visit this amusement park.
And she wants to cringe when he grabs hold of her but instead of listening to herself
she listens to her heart.
Unwanted lips kissing her face and she takes it all in stride
afraid to admit her mistakes because of her pride.
Soft kisses turn into sloppy kisses
and warm hugs turn into feelings so hard and cold you’d think they were milk mugs.
Hot dates she no longer wants to take
but her financial status is at stake.
No more Christian Dior, Stephanie Taylor or Dolce Gabbana because she’s known on the streets as being his hottest baby mama
so she rebels.
Refusing to follow directions like a sterile sperm cell alone she cannot fertilize
this she soon realize
so she turns back to what she often refers to as hell.
She can’t understand what has happened to the warm hugs and innocent smells, yet she rebels.
He has painted her face with his fist,
multicolor on its sides
Sharpening his nails to cut her thighs’ and insides
but she laughs it off in stride
afraid to admit her mistakes because of her pride.
Excuses upon excuses she is determined to sell, so she rebels.
Convinced this is the last time she
runs to the nearest store praying her favorite make-up is on sale.
But she looks good though!
Driving his Lamborghini
shades on windows down, saying to herself “I know you see me!”
Blasting Jay-Z she agrees, “I can’t leave this alone the game needs me!”
So she endures the nightly screams of “Please don’t beat me!”
Attempting to open her eyes, Truth tries but she refuses to see.
Months and months have passed, and she’s lying in a place filled with screams and death mail.
Truth’s flowers she now wants to smell but her obituary has come too early,
so to the dirt,
she Rebels.

Burdens

burdenI don’t understand why some of you burden yourselves. Life is hard enough that we don’t have to add unnecessary baggage. Like, why do I have to buy the organic egg vs. the regular egg? The organic salad vs. the regular salad? And what’s wrong with tap water? 100 yrs ago we couldn’t have dreamed of buying water and yet here we are. I bet you they ain’t tripping over water in Africa though, or in some third world country where they drink water you wouldn’t even bathe in. Goldberg gonna be selling you air next though, then there’s gonna be a debate about which air tank is the healthiest. There is just so much more important things in the world to worry about than what we choose to carry. Sometimes it’s not the load that breaks us down, it’s both how we choose to carry the load and the load we choose to carry.