Birthrights…

We all carry our parents trauma…the loneliness our fathers felt when abandoned by their own, the rejection our grandmother’s handed down to our mothers…that old school shit…you’re too dark, too light, good hair…nappy hair…whatever, all of it. My mother and I, we have walked through black nights together, screaming on opposite ends of the sky, rushing to one another when the cold became bone chilling…clinging to one another for healing. We have searched with courage and humility. Flawed and fucked up, beautiful and generous in spirit. I don’t care if every other relationship passes me by, it’s Mommy and me. I see her pain, and honor her truth…I am her, she is me…this bond is heavy and sagging sometimes, but finally I am carving out my own freedom from my mother’s bondage. She always tells me that she is only a few generations away from slavery, and the stains are there, permanently on her soul, on mine, passed down. We are conscious of our freedom, we are unlike the young white women who court bohemianism and dress the part with total abandon and ownership. We strip our hair of chemicals and wax poetic about the notion of self love and discovery. We know that the truth is sometimes a burden on the spirit, yet we stalk it, hoping to gain ownership of ourselves.  I am my mother, light skinned with the “good hair ” that she always coveted, honey dripping from my throat, piercing eyes, biting tongue, lovely heart, rich soul. I am my mother and I will continue to rise in love despite defeat , and sing of light, despite dark, because I am a WOMAN.