Beyoncé is giving the performance of a lifetime, and for once, it’s not for us. This past week, Bey came under fire for the appearance of her daughter Blue Ivy’s hair. It’s not the first time. And this isn’t the first time I’ve written about Bey, Blue and hair, either. What’s new? This Change.org petition imploring the Carters to […]
I’m still recovering from Memorial Day! Most of you, like me, probably went back to your cubicle unis after spending the weekend in sundresses, shorts and tanks. Wasn’t it nice to feel the air brush your skin for a change? I love warm weather clothes and I’ve been looking to step up my t-shirt game […]
Last month, I started watching two web series produced and written by Black actors that are restoring my faith in love at first sight (of a TV show). I don’t rely on television for entertainment for this primary reason: In a television climate where we have witnessed both Mary Jane Paul (Being Mary Jane) and […]
When I found out that my church’s women’s group was going to see The Single Mom’s Club, I groaned. Every time a Tyler Perry movie comes out, my church takes it as an opportunity for fellowship and discussion. As much as I like socializing, I never “make it” to those outings. I always felt too cowed […]
This is a love letter to Black women, my sisters. I have never loved anyone quite as hard as I have loved you. This is not to say that I have not loved others well or loved them deeply, because I have. But loving you is hardness, requiring the density of commitment fortified by an enamel of truth. This love is jewelry decorating the wrapping of my skin–I could no more remove it than I could unzip my blackness, fold it, and pack it in a suitcase.
I know living in this world in your skin is no picnic. Because you are more than breasts and thighs and ass; they can nibble at your three piece but never lay claim to your biscuits. They will try to consume you, nibble at the meat of your magic until they spit out bones, but they will never grind you to gristle: You carry the marrow of Nzinga. They can reduce you to angry, hot gravy, thick and brown, but never pinpoint your savor. They try to pluck your femininity, call it oversexed. And always, you scratch back when bitten. You are fly, love, but you ain’t never been chicken(heads).