Jenny Meya

There was never really a thought to use water. To comb out that hair with water. Those brush strokes made sounds of ripped branches that came out of resistance. It resisted itself from the coarse-textured nappy headed hair that told colourful stories. Tales often heard through wired telephones. Most of these stories rhymed with many different types of black and brown skinned heads. Mama would always say, “that’s why you gotta brush your hair out every day. If you did, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much."

There are women who love the women, but love the men more. They seem consoling and balletic, but are mask-less spectators proffering a speech about a pseudo notion of love towards women, while honoring men who cross-question the necessities of the same women they will forever claim they love. These women will conceal their emotions indicating any support for the woman with a past and a confession. Her confessions lie within the constructs of being believed and being somewhat forgiven by the women who needed her to retire from stories of abuse.

I’ll never forget Ms. Fitzpatrick’s facial expression when Romance asked her:

I hum the sound of God so that my spirit guides can hear me