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#misogynoir
My nose is too broad And my hips are too wide My big lips swollen with stories About my lack of self-pride. I can’t buy cheap makeup, Flesh plasters or tights But I can’t really moan ‘Cause I got civil rights. Right? Left. I see the bold stare. She masks her intrigue with kindness Then ruffles my hair. I’m told that I’m different Then told I’m the same. But when push turns to shove It’s myself who’s to blame. Weaves mean I crave white Curls, hidden from view. And everyone’s a critic In this real human zoo. I’m exotic and feisty Though I’m from where you live. Should I just play along? Or move on and forgive? My curves are so ghetto But it’s what most girls crave. It belongs to everyone, but me And that’s the path that we pave. Fetishized by the pale But ignored by my own. Lord, what did I do? To deserve this skin tone? “I’ve never been with a Black chick”. I say: “Neither have I”. If that’s all we have in common, My humour runs dry. I’m forced to smile at old strangers So they don’t cross the street. When paranoia takes over, I stare down at my feet. I shouldn’t need to remind you That we all bleed dark red. But when pixels and spin divide us, It’s my flesh left for dead. So what can I do To soothe this 300-year itch? Nothing, just take it! You angry, Black *****
0
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
joelle-a-owusu
MISS O.G. NOIR
My nose is too broad And my hips are too wide My big lips swollen with stories About my lack of self-pride. I can’t buy cheap makeup, Flesh plasters or tights But I can’t really moan ‘Cause I got civil rights. Right? Left. I see the bold stare. She masks her intrigue with kindness Then ruffles my hair. I’m told that I’m different Then told I’m the same. But when push turns to shove It’s myself who’s to blame. Weaves mean I crave white Curls, hidden from view. And everyone’s a critic In this real human zoo. I’m exotic and feisty Though I’m from where you live. Should I just play along? Or move on and forgive? My curves are so ghetto But it’s what most girls crave. It belongs to everyone, but me And that’s the path that we pave. Fetishized by the pale But ignored by my own. Lord, what did I do? To deserve this skin tone? “I’ve never been with a Black chick”. I say: “Neither have I”. If that’s all we have in common, My humour runs dry. I’m forced to smile at old strangers So they don’t cross the street. When paranoia takes over, I stare down at my feet. I shouldn’t need to remind you That we all bleed dark red. But when pixels and spin divide us, It’s my flesh left for dead. So what can I do To soothe this 300-year itch? Nothing, just take it! You angry, Black *****
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Sit up straight And listen up, Because this is not a drill and I am only going to say this once: I am not ebony - A piece of decorative wood. Nor am I chocolate- Ready to melt into myself with the heat of your touch. I’m not you’re “sista” – We are not related. And I’m definitely not your “gurrrrl”. We never dated. I will tell you what I am: You may want to take a deep breath now… I am a Black woman. Yes, with a capital ‘B’. I am a Black woman. Who is exhausted because everything I do is silently political. Whom I choose to dance with in the club Is political – “is she into white guys, or black?” The way I answer the question: “Where are you from…?” “No, where are you really from?” Is political – “You look different from me, so I need to put you in a labelled box and **** at you with my mind.” Like saying I’m from near your ends isn’t a good enough answer. My accent? Political – “Why is she so well-spoken? Who adopted you?” It confuses you, because it doesn’t match my South London skin tone. The way I choose to style my hair Is political – I wear weaves because I want to be European and hate myself. I wear afros because I hate Europeans and love myself. How I pronounce my own surname Is political – Do I simplify it to spare your blushes when you mispronounce it? The music I proudly declare to enjoy – Political. I must be a secret bloke – like that Serena fella of the telly. ‘Cause no fuckable girl has looks like that. And my skinny arms? Well, they never fed me in the orphanage, remember?. I’m obviously malnourished like my family back in the Motherland. You say: “I don’t see race – we are all one.” Good for you. but, I cannot afford to pretend to be colour-blind because I am a Black woman- Bottom of the rung. I am affected and I am exhausted. I am a Black woman- But that is not all that I am. Are you still sitting straight? Can you hear me in the back? Because this is not a drill And this woman is Black.
0
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
joelle-a-owusu
This Is Not A Drill
Sit up straight And listen up, Because this is not a drill and I am only going to say this once: I am not ebony - A piece of decorative wood. Nor am I chocolate- Ready to melt into myself with the heat of your touch. I’m not you’re “sista” – We are not related. And I’m definitely not your “gurrrrl”. We never dated. I will tell you what I am: You may want to take a deep breath now… I am a Black woman. Yes, with a capital ‘B’. I am a Black woman. Who is exhausted because everything I do is silently political. Whom I choose to dance with in the club Is political – “is she into white guys, or black?” The way I answer the question: “Where are you from…?” “No, where are you really from?” Is political – “You look different from me, so I need to put you in a labelled box and **** at you with my mind.” Like saying I’m from near your ends isn’t a good enough answer. My accent? Political – “Why is she so well-spoken? Who adopted you?” It confuses you, because it doesn’t match my South London skin tone. The way I choose to style my hair Is political – I wear weaves because I want to be European and hate myself. I wear afros because I hate Europeans and love myself. How I pronounce my own surname Is political – Do I simplify it to spare your blushes when you mispronounce it? The music I proudly declare to enjoy – Political. I must be a secret bloke – like that Serena fella of the telly. ‘Cause no fuckable girl has looks like that. And my skinny arms? Well, they never fed me in the orphanage, remember?. I’m obviously malnourished like my family back in the Motherland. You say: “I don’t see race – we are all one.” Good for you. but, I cannot afford to pretend to be colour-blind because I am a Black woman- Bottom of the rung. I am affected and I am exhausted. I am a Black woman- But that is not all that I am. Are you still sitting straight? Can you hear me in the back? Because this is not a drill And this woman is Black.
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