• Journal of a black lady

    Dear 24 year old me

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    Memoirs of a Slave

    To my unborn child:
    I’m sorry I brought you into a world where you are not wanted

    Im sorry that all your dreams are taken for granted

    When you should stand up, I raise you to be grounded
    I’m sorry that when Rosa sat on the bus I didn’t sit with her

    When Martin said march, their hearts were bitter 

    Gunshots and chokeholds made us non-believers 

    And yet they call Malcolm X a deceiver

     

    I’m sorry that you fear walking down the streets

    When you should stand up, they put you down on your knees

    When you do stand up, they stomp you with their feet
    So excuse me, India Arie, but I am my hair.

    Let me tell you about this self-love affaire 

    See each curl is a curve of my dignity

    Even if they claim its my malignity

    See my sun-kissed skin forms a goddess

    “From head to toe,” Miles Hodges.
    So as your eyes follow the meanders of my body, 

    Remember that I wasn’t made to please you

    And as you sink in judgments, little girl

    Remember that not everything they say is true
    Written by Habiba Orsud.

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