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Defiantly I Protest That The Shade Of My Bosoms Makes Them Less Than Breasts.

I wish I could have been there. . .

I would have whispered

in Medgar’s ear,

in Malcolm’s ear,

in Martin’s ear,

“Don’t forget to tell them to always cherish me”.

But, I suppose that would have been selfish as there were greater tasks at hand and certifying my femininity was the least of their concerns,

as it should have been.

Before they could fight for my right to be a woman, they had to ensure that my brothers could feed me, provide shelter for me, acquire whatever inoculation was needed to treat me.  And all this is contingent upon their ability to have an equal opportunity to compete, to be gainfully employed, and to provide for themselves and their families.

I wonder what they would say if they were here now?  I wonder if they would be able to find a way, as I have, to reconcile not fighting for me?

How could they have known?

Should they have known?

Who could have known that their efforts to ensure that my brothers could live,

would have ensured that they didn’t live with me?

Would they be proud to see my brothers ridiculing the intensity of my complexion?  Would they sing along with Lil Wayne, “. . .beautiful black woman, bet ya’ that bitch look betta’ red”?

If they were rappers would they too chose to exemplify and certify the beauty of the descendants of those who disregarded the tears of our children as their dogs maliciously gnawed at their ankles? Would they too have been victimized by the conditioning that half white is half right?  Or that lighter is just a little bit tastier?

Black is Black. This I understand.  But being a woman and too black is entirely different.

Yesterday, we were all 1/8 th man.  And somewhere down the line of human greed and competition we decided that some of us would have to remain 1/8th of something.

I hope one day someone emancipates me from my cage, from my chains.

I so want to be a woman in your eyes.

Till then, my femininity will remain confined to a cage made of masochistic bars.

No, I don’t hate me.

You hate you. . .

and hence have chosen to be with, to honor, to revere, to admire, to love,  to protect, and shelter everyone that is not like me;

or like you. . . Black,


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