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Black Woman

by Vette about a month ago in humanity

A Unique Pour of Divine Libation

Black Woman
Photo by Ben Scott on Unsplash

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

Upon the grandness of her autonomy, the fullness of her being, her crown, and the wounds that have been inflicted. Wounds that bleed, but the color is hope.

She is wisdom. She is strength. She is tired.

We must see her and not only the spaces she inhabits, but the ones she creates as a wellspring for the weary, a teacher to the foolish, a queen among brutes.

We must plunge ourselves into the inkwells from which she fills her canvas, and witness, wholeheartedly, the manifestations of her willful heart, her unshackled mind, and the truth of her raunchy banter. Observe her, she is earth’s art; soil and sun, wind and water.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

What fills her with joy? Her laughter is robust, pressing past her pain, feeding her own soul while providing sweet sanctuary for those whose hearts have no laughter of their own.

Beneath what canopy of colors does she dance in the rain?

A rainbow of promise envelops her, carrying her beyond what can be seen to what truly is--Love.

What melodies cause her to sing when no music can be heard? She sings a song of peace, even while she is lifting her voice to protest.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

Upon her shoulders, the warmth of her brown skin and the yellow, red, or purple undertones that make it shimmer. Look at the kinkiness of her curled crown, the fullness of her belly, and the stretch marks that remain.

What space does she fill?

Have we reduced her to a monochromatic outline, or is she a robust garden of perennial wisdom, and brilliant vitality that boasts no boundaries? Is she free to explore her potential, or is she nothing more than a caricature of our twisted sensibilities and scandalous misdeeds?

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

A gaze that quietly searches her face, her eyes, to see where the salt from her tears have left their trails. With a gentle touch we must follow the lines designed by her smile, or those forcibly etched into her brow by worry, and rage.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

Where is she standing?

Where is she wounded? From beneath the weight of what systems is she screaming truth, exhausted? From behind what oppressive structures is she reaching out, energized against those who would minimize her, silence her, erase her?

A Prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

For every space she fills with laughter, equal time must be given to every prayer room, kitchen table, and pew that she fills with painfilled petitions.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her. From the auction block to the senate floor, and from the jailhouse to the church house, we must feel her lament, and tremble at her prophesies. Disrespectfully, some have fallen asleep while she laments in the garden, we must allow her grief to awaken us from our indifference to who she is, who she has always been.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her.

A prolonged gaze must be set upon her in the classroom. In the beauty shop, the bingo hall, and the halls of justice. If she is in the graveyard, or the churchyard we must observe what has been done to her and advocate for something new—something beautiful, and kind.

In high heels or house shoes the Black woman is a splendid thing, a unique pour of divine libation that cannot be wasted, even if intentionally thrown to the ground –repeatedly

Read next: 'Chocolate Kisses'

My name is Vette. I think I'm a writer, among other things, but right now I'm just figuring things out...

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