Facebook reminded me that this was my status on August 22, 2017….
You’re a feminist. A black feminist. With a critic of white feminism. Yet you are really just here for a certain type of black woman. The black women who are educated, working in corporate, with 27 inch waists or smaller, the married after 28 ones, the don’t wear blue eyeshadow ones, the single ones working in creative careers, the Zara blazer wearing ones, the ones living in gentrified Brooklyn and near the Wholefoods Harlem, the ones who had children after 30, the so-called grinders, the ones in news clippings, the ones who hike, and jog, and swim, the #hashtag life goals ones, the ones who watch Insecure and go on girl’s trips to Cuba, and make their salads to go to work, and twist their hair up at night with castor oil. The "never-not-working" girls. The #SundayFunday girls. The praying and going to church everyday, Sunday ones. The ones starting their own organizations and marching in the streets and tweeting and blogging about these injustices.
But are you here for the ones that ain’t carefree? The ones that you don't think are hashtag black excellence or hashtag black girl magic? The 30 something single mother whose first child is a teenager. What about the ones who are 33 year old grandmothers? The ones who only leave the county for emergencies? The ones who save up for months to go to the Dominican Republic. The Vegas on her birthday ones. The ones who don’t go to the gym, don't drink green smoothies, don't know how to say quinoa. The ones that shop at Ashley Stewart. The ones who use bonding glue to put on their eyelashes and put accent colored tracks in the their hair. The side chicks who calling themselves main chicks. The strippers. The ones who jump over counters and stand on cars and fight in front of their kids. The ones who talk loud on the train. The ones whose kids' are their best friends. They ain’t pretty girls who listen to trap music, they live in trap houses. The ones in East New York. The ones in the Bronx. The ones who pay for EBT cards and take their brothers to work. The ones who put beads in their daughters hair. The ones who are in line at Old Navy and are still in love with their high school boyfriends. The ones who wear bodycon dresses to church, if they go at all. The ones who match their panties with their bra, their dress with their earrings, their shoes their belt. The Michael Kors bag carrying, the bumble gum chewing, the hamburger helper making, the ones who miss their “red hair.” The ones who have student loans from for-profit Midwest colleges that they never finished. The ones that will pop off on their supervisor. The post worker going on break. The hairstylist. The HR director texting her baby daddy. The mama picking up her kids late for school. The one that ain’t a twitter academic. She ain’t your life goals.
Aren't they black girl magic too?
Ya’ll here for her too? Those are my cousins, sisters, and my aunts. They are apart of me. They are me. And I’m tryna be here for her too. Let’s not hide her in favor of a more respectable version. We need both the sun and the rain to survive. Let’s be better sisters. (I’m talking to myself, too)