“Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? Who taught you to hate the color of your skin? To such extent you bleach, to get like the white man. Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose and the shape of your lips? Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? Who taught you to hate your own kind? Who taught you to hate the race that you belong to so much so that you don’t want to be around each other? The most disrespected woman in America, is the black woman. The most un-protected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America, is the black woman.”
– Malcolm X, May 5, 1962 at the funeral service of Ronald Stokes in Los Angeles.
This post is for the colored girls growing up in ghettos and back alley ways where not even the front porch is safe. No offense to those who ain’t colored or black or african american or whatever byword we choose to call ourselves these days. You see I’ve known too many young women aborting their purpose for the opportunity to be hood certified. You know it. Named brand from the lobe in her ears to the Gucci panties and matching bra somebody said was worth holding our heads up for. Ladies, true power is made when you stop giving it away. When even your emotions themselves can’t be touched. You see the real women–the ones who are truly wealthy–they work smarter, not harder and this ain’t about a cliche. Cliche’s got nothing on a woman who can not only manage her time but her emotions too. Cliches got nothing on a woman with structure, order, and morals to guide her. Cliches got nothing on a woman with a plan who knows how to use it. Arguing back and forth with people or jumping in someone’s face because they said something negative about you gives away your power, and when someone else has your power they can control you with it. I know reputation is important at this age but smart girls learn to keep their mouths shut and are not impressed by the latest gear or level of popularity. You see a name brand shoe is amateur to she who has wisdom. She who has wisdom spends her time cultivating her mind. She spends her time learning how to be a woman. She who has wisdom is heard of, but is rarely heard. This means that people know of her, but don’t hear much from her. This is because the smart girls know how to keep their mouths shut. You will never see the smart girls bickering back and forth on Facebook and Twitter. A smart girl’s energy and her time is too precious. Even when a smart girl is offended you won’t know about it and when she strikes back you’re not sure if she did. Even when she excels a smart girl doesn’t necessarily have to make noise, you see her works will speak for her. Smart girls are not puffed up and conceited. They understand that comfort zones are beautiful, but no growth happens there. So smart girls hit hard but move silent. This is what makes her who she is. She doesn’t seek attention, she seeks respect because it lasts longer. You see, girls who are smart understand that there are two very precious commodities in life. One is time and another is wisdom. A smart girl can walk into a room wearing rags and still be respected, why? Because of her sincere desire for instruction. Smart girls are known for not what’s on their feet, or what drips from their necks, but smart girls are known for what’s in their minds. And oh yea, before I forget, two things. Number One: Smart girls don’t go around hating and envying each other, they’re worth too much for that. Jealousy is beneath a smart girl. Two: Smart girls understand the value of patience and therefore seek the approval of men, not boys. Still, a smart girl understands that to get a man she must first become a woman. It pays to be a smart girl.
Aside from the renowned Phillis Wheatly, Lucy Terry is another black poet recognized as one of the first African American poets. Born in Africa, her village was raided when she was a girl and the institution of slavery brought her to America. She was sold to Ebenezer Wells of Deerfield, Massachusetts. Her one and only poem, “Bars Fight” is about the traumatic raid on her village by both white and Native Americans before her enslavement. As is one of her lines: “Eunice Allen see the Indians comeing….And hoped to save herself by running.”
First, I want to thank Colleen of Silver Threading for tagging me in the #GirlLove Challenge, that’s my girl! For those who are unfamiliar, Girl Love is a challenge premiered by Lilly Singh, a Canadian vlogger, under the inspiration of ending girl-on-girl hate. You can watch her YouTube video here.
I am honored to be tagged in a challenge that promotes the building up of women because that’s one of the many purposes of my work (It is the reason I host a weekly online radio show specifically dedicated to the sisterhood). The challenge addresses a problem we tend to only see in woman-to-woman relationships and that is our negative perceptions of each other. This is an issue that is relevant with all women and, most especially, black women. I believe the miseducation of the woman, what her duty and her purpose is, has contributed largely to this issue and how we see ourselves overall. For this reason, I strive to encourage women, with an emphasis on black women, to invest in the power of their purpose and to appreciate their beautiful selves.
I choose to tag the following women bloggers in the #GirlLove Challenge who I have come to know through the Blogosphere, and who I admire in some way. If we were to have a girls night out, I would love to invite:
I would love to meet this woman in person because I think we will have a lot of fun! I love to laugh and something tells me she does too. Lisa has been very supportive of my work and my blog since following me a year ago. We have had the opportunity to pretty much swap support for each other on a professional level as well. I’ve done a book review for her, she has written a review for my book, we’ve interviewed each other and overall the experience has just been amazing. Lisa reminds me that team work makes the dream work!
I don’t always comment on Whitney’s posts but I read them daily. A year younger than I, I feel like Whitney is like my little sister! She reminds me so much of myself years ago. Her topics of discussion are easy to follow and relate to for black youth. But more importantly, there’s this light about Whitney that inspires me to want to get to know her better. There’s something there that moves me to want to take her under my wing sorta speak.
If Whitney’s my little sister, Nikki’s my big sister! I started following her after she commented on one of my blog post (I believe it was the gentle rain). Since then I have purchased her book “The Town Dance” (which I’ve been secretly deciding whether or not to do a book review on but I haven’t spoken to Nikki yet so… shhh lol), as well as follow her on Instagram and Facebook. Nikki is very talented and one thing I would like to do is pick her brain! Let’s just sit down over a nice cocktail and talk about the black experience.
I love her! I have only started following Deb recently, but I fell in love with her tagline “Because you need more than my fingerprints” (I believe we met during Blogging U’s Writing 101). Since following her blog, I have come to really love her down to earth demeanor and her realness because I am all about that. With me its like, I may not always agree with your perspective or your flaws but please keep it real with me. Let me get to know the real you and we can work on our issues together. That’s what I get from Deb’s blog, she always keeps it 100. She also makes me laugh lol. She is also a blogger whom I do not always comment on but who I do pay attention to (you never know whose watching…no pressure lol). I would love to meet Deb in person and learn more about her.
And last but certainly not least is Michelle. I have a passion for children (I was a teacher and tutor at a research center for years and interacted with children of all ages on a daily) and this woman has just the cutest little baby ever. I don’t want to say I followed her blog because of her kid but…I did! LOL. No, but seriously, Michelle and her little princess are adorable and I always look forward to their updates. The one with Kenzy’s new headband? Super cutesy! I have also just started following Michelle recently and I look forward to learning more about her.
******
#I AM MY SISTERS KEEPER #IAMMSK
Well, that’s it for me. The diversity of the personalities of each of these women would make our meet and greet an amazing experience. I hope you enjoyed my spotlight on some of the women I have come to know and love through the blogosphere and I encourage each of you to follow their blogs! Below is more on the #GirlLove Challenge for those who want to participate.
Here’s what you do for the #GirlLove Challenge:
Tell your followers who inspire you, a famous woman who may be dealing with negativity on a daily basis.
Tell your followers who inspire you in real life, a woman you always interact with.
Tag five women bloggers who you love. Compliment them and tell them why you love them, and comment under their latest post with the link to your #GirlLove post!
If you get tagged, do the post on your own blog. If you want to do it anyway, do it anyway! Add the tag ‘Girl Love’ to your post, so we can see them all! Let’s start 2016 with LOVE for each other!
We are south of Senegal, maybe Guinea, maybe Ghana, or maybe as far east as the Congo. In any event, there is a woman and she’s smiling; putting her body and her hands to work to the multitasking of the rhythm of hips, rolling shoulders and the calming beat of the sounds that influence them. You must not however get distracted by her dancing as if of some stereotypical performance the Africans must put on, for her tribes have always been comprised of dancers and musicians. After a wedding, and even after battle, the men assemble their drums and the women their bodies to tap into a spiritual formation of triumphant celebration. So, the woman is dancing, and showcasing the bright red and blue colors against her skin; the dyed cloths her mothers have handmade from fresh berries. Her hair is braided in plaits; it is strength like strong rope. The woman is gorgeous and the men stare as her chocolate skin glistens in the sun, soft and smooth like silk. He nods, returning her smile. She blushes, rolling back and forth to the appreciation of his hands, slamming with authority against djembe drums, a rope-tuned skin-covered goblet drum, as if massaging against her skin. The year is 1619, and she has just turned seventeen. Waiting this day to which he would smile at her since childhood.
Abba looks her way, it is what she calls Papa Joe, forcing her to turn off seductive eyes and transform into his innocent little girl giggling away in mama’s arms. Placing her index finger on mama’s lips she hopes she has gained enough trust in her to keep silent for daddy must not ever find out about her secret love. If so he may begin to think she no longer belongs to him, for in her village it is custom that when a woman found a man her father gives up his reign, and it now belongs to her husband. And this she can’t bring herself to fathom, that one of those fine strong men will take her away from King Joe. The one who have always protected her and was known for treating mama like a queen, yet it is what she wishes for, to be queen. For a chance to wear golden nose rings and flaring dresses— yes, to be queen is what she wants. The sounds of the village men still heard in the background of her thoughts; slamming strong hands into drums in time for her body to move in that way.
The night has come, and Papa prepares the tent for sleep, driving the stakes into the ground. The roof is thatched with reeds, the walls and floors covered with mats. She lays awake, this woman. No, better yet this princess. Her eyes wander from the plantain from which her bed is made, to the mats three feet below her. Her eyes cannot stop to think of morning when the village men will approach each tent in that they may search out their future wife. This was done every year to service the anxious seventeen year olds, young women who’d prepared for this day since infancy. Seventeen because the number seven is symbolic of perfection, and it is their belief that seventeen years represented the completeness of their womanhood, perfectly fit to become someone’s wife. For this reason alone she cannot sleep, there is just too much excitement! She would never be seen as a child again, for on this day she would officially become a woman. A man would soon leave his father and mother to cling onto her. And she would serve her husband like mama does Papa Joe and her children she would raise to be the most upright of all her country. If only upon the awakening of the sun it will rest on the heart of him, to choose her.
Yet the night is not complete. Mama screams, obliterating her thoughts into pieces of confusion as storms of men with pale faces invade the village. She cannot catch herself before falling, ropes that smell like death have embraced her space and blood creeps in from outside the tent; and then there was darkness. Pitch black darkness as if the moon, that usually sent pieces of light tapping against each tent, had suddenly run away from the men with pale faces and yellow teeth. Baby girl had never seen them before. They could have been men or they could have been monsters, she didn’t know, and had nothing else to do but wait. This woman or better yet, this princess. This semi-woman waiting in the darkness to become queen.
Who taught you to hate yourself?
The PBS Blog 