In reflection: I read in a book which stated that a Black woman’s smile and laughter were truly her tears, her pain–Of course, which she has become so accustom to holding in her true self that her ability to shift from smile to laughter while tilting her head back, was her PAIN! When I actually digested this, and thought about myself and how many times did I smile when hurting at the afflictions of black people as if a parody; or at my own stupidity; at the jokes that racist told, to soften the sting; at the realization that my parents were in grown bodies with the cognizant skills of an 8th grader or less; and so much more: I realized that more-often, I was crying when smiling.
Yet, at this time, nothing has triggered the tears as seeing black women raw and naked across America. They, are not only naked, but also devoid of intelligence, and so out of touch that what may perfuse from their mouth is somewhere between rated x and rated xxx. It is sad, to walk down the streets and see a large behind in front of me, exposing elastic crimping and creasing’ strangling. It is stressful, to prepare myself for the world, to find that when I arrived, the world is shocked to see that I am clothed, and feminine, and adorned, loving myself: That I am an enigma because I am clothed, refusing to entertain them! Because I do not wear BET fashion gear; or appear as if I am going to a Fredericks of Hollywood photo shoot during the day. Oh, so very difficult to see it on women over 30.
It is rough! To be a beautiful woman and to engage in public with my husband to be accousted by gangs of old and young black women/girls with breast and hips out, stalking and preying about as if derange and unfit for public mobility. I often feel as if trapped in another time zone and violently abused in the presence of these women–Leering men and other women stare at them and gaze as if in the presence of a strange zoo animal. The flexing of my husbands head, to rebuke the creatures, the huff in his voice, the agitation, rage, embarrassment in his eyes in avoidance and inability as a man to chastise the thing back indoors is a strange thing–To hear a black man cry for the fallen black woman is complex and yet, not new: To console this-this male drowning in defeat, unable to protect (cover) not even his mother– is powerful, indeed.
And, again, this black woman gliding down the aisle with no care of her appearance than to purchase whatever available toxins to cover her demise is a heavy screen to view. Even jewels and finery on her appears strange and out of place; as if a mental patient robbed Saks Fifth Avenue and did not know that underwear are worn on the inside of the garment and not on the outside with a pair of plastic Payless red knee high boots and a large gold chain she robbed from her children’s education or just one book.
I feel like the Native on the canoe, floating, as the beer and empty chip bags float by in what was once a pristine lake. Yes, my smile is often my tears but not because I have the burden of inheriting a legacy of race hatred and disenfranchisement, because along with that I am invested with the strengths of greatness; yet my tears seem to flow and often on their own because as the Native, there is no one left to clean up the once beautiful lake; people have grown accustomed to seeing the big chip bags floating next to the rest of the trash cans. Because the character of Black woman, draped on videos, and swinging from strip poles, labia flapping as much as her jaws, jingling hips with butt cracks’ that are sometimes forgotten, to wipe, everywhere–she is the epicene of shame.
I have written a note in hopes that she and other Black women think about the fact– that when they are smiling, I see them crying too:
Dear Black woman:
I know, many, your own, your history, your wants, have wronged you. I know, all the dreams that never came true for you. I know you, while trying to work two jobs and support your children– you sometimes still cannot make ends meet. I know that you are often lonely, misunderstood, and that your real story has never been told. I know that you struggle, too, each day to keep your pride and dignity, even when your boss and your own family demand that you hand it over. For all of those Black women that fit into this part of this note, I love you, and we will get through it! I have learned how to stop smiling, when I do not feel like it. I have learned how to accept the truth and know that once you have truly made peace with the disappointments’ in your life, you too, will open up to your self and embrace your past: take the happiness and own it. For those Black women, who are not strong enough to transform their conditions, I strongly beg you: Please do not reproduce yourself; please do not bring anymore babies into this world that you are not ready to love, validate, feed, protect, support.
I am laden with the grief, tired with the heaviness, burden with the images of seeing little Black children line up for Aids, foster care, cannot read, malnourished, abused, raped– while you shake your syphilis infected pussy all over the front row of the club! I am tired of you. You have to go! Your fears, your inability to be anything more than what others have told you about yourself, has aided in the destruction of the Black family. You are just as responsible if not more for refusing to do what is natural to a woman, nurture the planet! But you, you nurture nothing, besides the hair on your head and your stretched-out vulva [your pussy girl]. We are asking you to leave–the family. In addition, we do not want you back; until you start to eradicate the damages your wound has cause generations’. Do not write, do not send letters, do not call, you are disowned!
P.S. “Love don’t live here anymore, I want you gone today.”
Lady Dissident 