Dear Black Girl,
On “Independence Day” —
Happy Independence Day, Black Girl, Woman, Queen! How’s your patriotism hanging? You got on your red, white, and blue? Either way, I bet you look cute.
Well, I suspect you heard something in my tone, so let’s go ahead and address it; I’ve never been one for beating bushes. And also because there are always perceived additives to a black woman’s tone. Funny, she never attaches them herself.
First, please don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful, for America and whatnot, for independence and “rights,” for equal access to abundance, theoretically, at least.
I’m certainly not aiming to have my clitoris detached from its operational headquarters, my still-healing from patriarchal indoctrination sacral chakra. Nor would I appreciate having to cover this little mug of mine. It took me so long to finally love her, my cracked but still favorite mug, after being teased and bullied, then several more years of hating myself for being me — a lower-middle/ entrepreneur class, nerdy black girl in cult-like religious bondage who would grow up to be a bisexual single mom. “Life ain’t been no crystal stair,” but a sister is blessed, okur?
And I don’t even play the Oppression Olympics anymore. I used to rideshare drive and count my blessings. Every time I was feeling sorry for myself, for my single black woman life, some black woman would get in my car with a sadder story. I know, while some of us got seemingly better distribution plans than others, we all been through some stuff, our own personal brands of it.
I realize that, were I any other place, I’d be forced (or challenged, depending on your perspective,) to accept a different, disturbing norm. Instead of the white man as my ruler: the man with the most goats or the pope.
But here, in American, what does any of it mean for us, black women? Independence. Success. Love?
Well, we’re like the aloe plant: much expected of; little required of; still somehow winning. We still be green, right?! Thick and juicy. Beneficial. Medicinal even. We bloom and provide, even in rough or untended conditions. Or the tickseed. According to Home Depot’s Garden Club article, “the drought-resistant Tickseed, also known as coreopsis, is a perennial that grows well just about anywhere. It brings pretty blooms and wispy foliage. Just give tickseed full sun to part shade and watch it thrive.” If that ain’t us, I don’t know what is. “Full sun to part shade.” Catch that. I live. No, I thrive.
So, sis (and I hope you hear the patriotic afrobeat playing in the background,) today is a perfect time, no matter what, to start or restart a radical self-care plan. We’re under a Solar Eclipse New Moon in Cancer and at the start of a powerful eclipse season and Mercury Retrograde. Please believe me when I say, go within. Connect with the God who answers after you let go of guilt and your mama’s expectations of you. Detach, disconnect, stretch, and surprise yourself. Envision that strong-backed man, or that luscious woman (hey, no judgment… I’m a recent retiree from lesbianism myself,) that window-walled condo and that Tesla Roadster. Picture the kids you raise(d) laughing and healthy, with all the material and spiritual tools you dream for them. Now, picture yourself right on in there. (I know you left you out, cuz that’s what we do.) No, now. Seriously. This is the time. The time is now. Seriously.
And then, it will all mean your #independence from other people’s opinions and expectations of you, from shrinking from and fearing imaginary captors, from tensing up, sucking in, and never receiving. Independence, or freedom, for a black woman, means being able to, like my best friend, Dr. Lakara Foster, work with the Christian church you love while serving God’s people as a psychic medium. It means finally making it to Paris, as one of the most colorful, innovative, authentic fashion designers you’ll ever meet, my sister, Jasmine Walker-O of King + Lola did this year. It means, with a unique and bodacious body type, unapologetically doing yoga anywhere, like my sisterfriend in the feature pic, Meaux Rodriguez, and motivating others to unapologetically do them.
Your slaver, the granddaddy you never really got to know because he worked so hard, your imperfect daddy who still probably calls you his princess (whether you’re close or not,) the boy who broke your heart, the boy or man who raped or molested you, the man who married you then cheated… He can’t hurt you anymore.
You’ll realize, on your #IndependenceDay, that no man can really hurt you. You are Mother Earth, Mother Africa, Yemaya, and Oshun anem. You’re divine, sexy, all-powerful… a bonafide feminine genie. Now gone and set off fireworks, free a few people, or eat some bbq or something.