Because to me, it means nothing; it’s just a number

It gives me no validation nor brings me shame

My grandmother seasoned Saturday soups with songs,

but never the ones from the land she left behind.

She anointed my scalp with oil,

plaited my hair with prayers,

spooned love with the chocho into my mouth.

My gratitude for your kindness was never expressed

For I was too young to be grateful

Too young to care, understand, or appreciate

You blessed three little girls of color

And valued their mother, a loyal worker for years

madre estas raíces no se pegan a nada 

madre tu angustia no se quita con nada 

Basic freedom was denied

And daily I cried.

Labeled as the “weaker sex”

Taunted mercilessly. My soul grew vex.

Wretched. Worthless

An imbecile. Senseless.

Everyone has to thrive in order for the system itself to thrive, every display of hate is only an unexpressed need to feel valid.

Heavy is the weight of my femininity,

But a weight I will bare until a change has come

I’m tired of writing about this

I’m tired of writing this

I’m tired of being handed material

everything destroyed in reverence of a new god, an unfamiliar god, they called him money. this god had power unlike any my people knew before, and to how my grandfather told it - it demanded servitude, offerings, and sacrifice like no other. It was an angry god.

I know my rights.

I know my strengths.

I know my history.

We don’t have spring,

summer, autumn, winter.

We live in green days

that throb with the steel-pan

rhythm of rain on zinc roofs

You said inside

I said no way

You said dolls

I said trucks.

i flourish

like bougainvillea

that rustles in the breeze

outside my window

pink + plentiful

The ocean quivers

Its heart is warm now

Its aim is as swift, and precise as a tall bird

A nation to be built

A noble lion as the head

And a graceful lioness

I can see how stubborn a six-year-old I must have been to proudly proclaim that I would never own anything pink and to loudly declare ,to anyone who would listen, that my favourite colour was actually blue (in truth, I never liked blue that much) .

Your nose need not be pinched

For you were made with straight lines

Your beauty is standard

As for the little women, their time was up

This day was for the next generation to keep

And lock it away within their memories

I was doing everything wrong and they made sure I knew.

There were supposed to be two buckets of water, not one. The panties were washed with blue soap before the bath, not after. Body wash was to be applied in a circular motion, not up and down, up and down.

I never thought I’d use you

Waiting intentions not placed on you

Your beauty is now utilized

Remember, you reap what you sew

You shall be given vineyards you did not plant,

Houses you did not build

What they call self-care today

It is we who showed you the way

Because I know boys such as this

who reach their hand out to me and call

“Jump! I’ll catch you!”

And as I edge,

Closer to the ledge

Toes half in gravity, trepidatious, I reply

“You see I’ve fallen before-

I’ve crashed to the ground.

I’ve tasted the earth, the soil, and the gravel”

Malcom X, Audre Lorde, and Amanda Seales.

The black woman has been shackled with the baggage of centuries of racial discrimination, religious and social control, censorship, as well as sexual repression.

This piece depicts a woman of African descent gazing directly at the viewer as tropical flowers, frozen in motion, waft past her face.