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 […]
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).
Finally! That’s what I thought while watching BET’s Black Girls Rock program last Sunday. Finally, black women are allowed space in the media to celebrate the best in themselves and other black women. It was gratifying to see a program that proclaimed we are all that, black girls and women who rock, diamond-strong in the face of adversity. […]
Black people have long respected the sacred spaces of beauty salons and barber shops as locations of empowerment and freedom. We don’t go just to get our hair “did”; we go to get our life right and to testify when it, like our hair, is perfectly laid. We trust our beautician to talk us off […]
I am in love. I’ve known it since I was a teenager, looking with young brown eyes at his chocolate skin and easy smile. He called me shorty, and it was all over. I lived for his hugs, his daps, and my heart strings were tied to the soles of his feet. That love started […]