My Love Is…

“Cause oh, All I ever do is think about you baby, I hold you in my arms inside my dreams, And I know what I know and what I know is, That no matter where you go, You will always think of me” Jill Scott

I watched “for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf” this weekend. It was everything and more than the critics proclaimed it to be. The cast captivated your attention from opening to ending credits. I was glad I went to see it.

In the movie Loretta Devine’s character announces something so profound: My Love is too BEAUTIFUL to be thrown back in my face. In kind each character describes their love. Though not part of the cast, I am a colored girl whose love has been cast aside and returned to sender. In tribute to an awesome movie… I will describe my love:

My love is too BEAUTIFUL to be thrown back in my face….

From shy looks under hooded lids to second glances across crowded and hazy taverns: I noticed you before the very scent of my perfume augmented your irises. The moment your image nudged every rational thought and cynical conviction from my brain, disconnecting neurons warning a fragile heart from danger and reconnecting with a lustful and lonely spirit, unbalanced by the search. The moment I looked up and realized that I wanted you— my love became beautiful… but you already voided the check of my riches written so delicately with your initials.

My love is too SELFLESS…

One murky over-indulgent glance and I’m prepared to ignore my independence for your authority; deny the powers of proprium to cook you Coq au Vin using the layers of my exoskeleton as your protein and the noble blood that I drained for hours from my fingertips to be the opulent base to satisfy your senses. I want nothing more than to please you; nurture you; seek to the depths and heal the hurts that harden your heart to my affections. I ask nothing in return for the urns piling around your feet as I kill parts of my ego to be what you lack. I echo the commands programmed by your nimble fingers in my memory chip— that too you soon tire of and forget to reload as I reboot.


My love is too GIVING…and yet it still lays at your feet.

For every one of your closed mouth kisses I drown you in urgent and wet laps from my ardent tongue. No warm embrace or open invitation are you denied from my tawny limbs as they stretch multitudinously for your entrance… and exit. I am Earth orbiting continuously, tiredlessly, vulnerably around your galaxy, merely requesting a few hours of sunlight each day to sustain the life encouraged by your brief sketch over my canvas. My axis never tilts away, my orbit never switches direction– I follow the pattern cartographed, never deviating from the tolken route. And yet you still demand more planets exist in your galaxy. Pluto, far off and virtually unknown, in the end is worth more of your engrossment than the perfect harmony we created without measurement of time.

My love is ENDLESS…

The hive construted in the only tree of a stark, desolate wasteland lures me infallibly, like a sailors siren song, back to your multislotted honeycomb. Every return is to a new location with other bee’s belongings littering my cubby hole. And yet my love never ceases or hesitates. Each reunion is the first encounter; the first glimpse spanning generations, transcending human theory; occuring eons before the aboriginal rendezvous of Sun to Moon. I would be your Jack— climbing beanstock after beanstock, hoping to uncover the secret treasures of the clouds… trailblazing a path hidden by the Giants who crush, maim, and plunder; ignoring the wonders they overlook and can no longer describe.

My love is EXQUISITE…

I would love you with a passion that surpasses understanding, twinkles like stardust hidden by moonbeams, stregthens with an enamel no fire can melt, heals better than any portion or elixir; uplifts higher than Superman’s cape. I’d walk with you on unlined streets with shady trees and scattered magnolia blossoms. I’d love you with a love more Beautiful than words, more Selfless than saints, more Giving than all charities combined, more Endless than eternity, and more exquisite than you could imagine…

If only you’d stop throwing it back in my face.



Fool That I Am

” And oh, yeah, yeah, fool that I am. For hoping, oh, you’d understand. And thinking that you would listen too. And oh, the things, the things I had planned… And oh, fool that I am. Oh, but I still care. Fool that I am.” Etta James

I’m definitely not at an age where I want to be married or even considering marriage and that responsibility, but it’s crazy to think of that in my adjacent future. Especially with the state of marriage and relationships being what they are: divorce rate at 50% (even higher for black marriages), 42% of black women never get married, (in 2002) 11% of the black male population was in prison (ages 25-29).

Of all the statistics… the black males in prison is the most startling. Considering that black people make up 13% of the population (Hispanics at 15%, whites at 70%): how the crap is a black woman supposed to marry a black male? Especially when all the black males of marriageable age are either in prison (11%!), unemployed (maybe b/c they just got out of prison!?), or leg-shackled with a few kids already.

With the statistics the way they are it’s no wonder that 42% of black women do not get married. *sigh* and these are outdated statistics!

So is it surprising that unmarried black woman have children out-of-wedlock?  With prospects this bleak, I’m astounded that more of us aren’t nuns…if only the Catholic Church embraced us with open arms…

Well reported on a new campaign called: No Wedding, No Womb to educate and encourage black women to wait for marriage.

“No Wedding, No Womb from 

Blogger Christelyn Karazin sparked controversy on the blogosphere last month when she organized the online campaign, “No Wedding, No Womb,” to address the fact that 72 percent of Black children are born out of out of wedlock. According to Karazin, too many sisters are raising children alone, and too many Black men are not stepping up to accept the responsibility of fatherhood.
 I can understand the sentiment of black men not stepping up. I’ve dealt with that a lot in my family. But at the same time we live in a society that prides itself on selfishness and self-consideration. So what’s the incentive for a black man to be a father, especially if he never had a father figure himself? Or is it just as BB King croons: once the “thrill is gone” it’s time to leave?
And why is a woman running this campaign… Where are you Steve Harvey?
Is it because we lay down and spread our honey thighs in hopes to ensnare you in our wedlock web? Or are we fighting that age-old battle between in need and in love?
And here starts my blue spectrum theory: “Love” is now varying degrees of blue that span Damn-near-white = Loneliness, and Blue Black= Lust. The object is to reach perfect blue.
In life we are always sliding back and forth along this spectrum of lust and loneliness until we reach a point where the need to be physically satisfied and the need for companionship incites us to find “Love”.  These emotional needs become so overwhelming that we immediately look for someone to meet those needs and thus ‘fall in love’ with that person.
When we reach the peak of both of those needs… relationship ennui kicks in and our attention deviates to distractions outside of the couple. And so the cycle continues.
What people fail to mention that while navigating the nautical channel of “love” we inevitably hurt the other party in the process: leaving them with added responsibility (children/stds/HIV),  an addled mental state (hurt, confusion, grief, anger), and irreproachable tension (despondency, indifference, amour). And then as we send a lukewarm push to our future “hero”, we desperately cling to the hopes that they will come to “heal” all the pains of relationships past.
Wake up Scrooge! There are no ghosts haunting you and the potential to change bad habits dwell within.
 “Fool that I Am” I still believe in the perfect blue… in theory. In practice however, I realize my barometer reads “blue-black” pretty much all the time… How else do you explain my horrible taste in men?
So as God asks all daughters of Jerusalem: ” I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake [my] love, till he please.” Songs 2:7
I wish my head would listen…

I Love My Hair

“Don’t need a trip to the beauty shop, because I love what I got on top. It’s curly and it’s brown and it’s right up there. You know what I love? That’s right- My Hair! I really love my hair… I love my hair. There’s nothing else that can compare with my hair. I must declare… I really, really love my hair.” Sesame Street

Women always tell me how lucky I am to be “mixed” because I have that “good hair”. Sometimes I want to scream because they can never appreciate how many times I’ve stood in front of the mirror with scissors contemplating cutting it all off and going bald. Hair is soo much work.

I remember one time when I was about 3 or 4 I took the scissors and made myself bangs just like my Barbie… unfortunately this was the type of Barbie who’s hair grew back… well it took a lot longer to grow out my bangs.

And then there was the constant flux between parents, households, and foster homes which included multiple *bad* perms. Well in the middle the Millionaire told me I was old enough to take care of my own hair. I thought I was brushing it, but I only scaled along the surface. As it turns out my hair matted in large clumps that later had to be cut out. Imagine my shame and horror at being the only bald third grader.

High school was better, my sister took care of my hair. It was always freshly permed. We experimented with highlights…but it was still short: a little past my ears but not touching my shoulders. I thought I was too cute! But I hated the harsh scabs that I would have after a bout with Dark & Lovely. And I hated always checking for new growth or having to wash your hair with special shampoo when you went swimming. Even worse I hated how my hair would fall out in clumps and it never bounced but was always stringy straight.

College: Thank the Lord I was too poor to do anything about my hair in college. Unfortunately it always looked a mess. Until my cousin bought me the Chi… *Thank you LC*. Now with perfect weather conditions: no rain, no humidity, below 75 degrees; I can have silky straight strands that reach the bottom of my bra strap. It’s also made me love the winter 🙂

But i like rocky my hair curly also. Especially freshly washed with the curls are dynamically defined. I whip my hair back and forth… and smile with contentment.

I’m still young in my hair horror stories… though the bread incident still incites my family into peals of joyous laughter *cough*; but I’ve learned not to be scared of my hair. If cut, it will grow back. If permed, it will grow out. If dyed, it can be dyed back.

I’ve also realized what hairstyles look great on me: big bouncy curls, long luscious waves, piled high, chignon’d low… it works.

It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve learned to embrace my hair and love it for doing what it does. I love the subtle signs that signals the need to wash it, oil it, comb it. I love how soft and light it is. I love how it moves in the wind and still winds back into shape. It’s mine… I love it… and I’m a Black Girl who Rocks!

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