I wonder if our ancestors could hear the shackles of “what’s good ma Nigga?”, as the white python wrapped itself around her vocal cords of freedom. And released its venom of “shut up you Nigger”.
Yes, granted Susan B. Anthony and company led a White Women’s Suffrage, but the loud suffers of women clash of thunder, and liberation.
The millennial Rap’s “artistry”, magnifying the curve of her hips, that make demons of lust ache of hunger seasoned with perverse imagination. Quietly ministering to our young men that, “Yes! She’s a treat lick and meet your every need”.
I come from a generation where we cast another woman’s crown to feel renowned. Where the succubus sings symphonies of how she can wrap her legs around his soul.
A generation, where side chicks harmonize guiltless tunes of “I don’t care she’s not my friend”.
I’m sorry Amber Rose, your “slut walk” is a thorn to the name of Woman.
No, your name isn’t shorty, or whore. You are not a booty call, nor societies tramp stamp. Your name is Woman. Last name is Wisdom clothing your sisters with beauty. You are more precious than rubies.
Abuela, you are grace establishing peace in the heart of man.
Tia, you are shielded in strength and dignity.
Mami, your tongue is a flame of fire silencing the storms of statistics and corruption.
Mis primas y hermana bella , you are seated in high majestic places. You are a royal diadem crowning the head of God.
My name is woman. I am a trumpet sounding the glory of truth. A creator of life. I open my legs and push the destinies of soldiers, armies breaking the fences of injustices and limitations. Pack leaders roaring of influence. I release rebirth, restoration, and revival. Yes, generational power tearing the barriers of ignorance.
We are hands, filling the bellies of hunger, and healing the hearts of pain.
Her name is Woman. That’s me.