Last week one of my frequent guests & online comrades Michelle W. posted (“VENTING (Because I can Damn it)”) on her blog last week, her frustrations on the Imus issue &amp;amp; touched on Black racial & sexist double standards. The issues she raised all over the Afrospear but she put a cherry on top with her poetry piece.
Side note: In her post, Michelle mentions that while writing she was listening to a little Mos Def & when I was re-reading her words I just happened to be listening to A tribe Called Quests “Luck of Lucien”.
So anyway while reading her post, I was excited to see her poem dedication to me. I am both honored, humbled & so felling each stanza.
Her poem “Nappy Headed Ho’s” is/was right on time & very poignant!
Without further adieu (snapping fingers in rapid succession).
Nappy Headed Ho’s
They sang with ropes around their necks, welts on their backs, blood in their mouths.
They sang and they danced with chains on their ankles, no shoes on their feet, couldn’t escape the rocks thorns and debris.
They danced and they prayed with hope in their hearts, faith in their pockets, and strength on their sides they prayed.
They prayed and they cried with never ending tears that washed the pain off of their faces.
They caught those tears in calloused hands and saved them for a rainy day and fed them to their children so they would never forget.
Never forget what they could survive.
Tell the story they said.
Pass it on, so these marks on my back mean something.
Tell my story; how we birthed this Nation we were forced to plow.
We are not cattle. You are not animals.
You are a King strong and powerful.
You are not uneducated.
You are a Queen lively and beautiful.
Pass it on.
Let them know that this blood in you is the same blood in them.
The milk that I fed you is the same that I gave them.
Let them know that it was more than a joy ride.
No, it was not a pleasure cruise.
It was hell on wheels.
But we made it through.
Rough times and rocky roads.
No shoes and little clothes.
Nothing fancy we just jumped over the broom.
Strong family united from the womb to the tomb.
Tell them baby, tell my story.
Pass on your heritage of Oshun and Yemenya.
Tell of your roots of Hannibal and Shaka Zulu.
Let them know that they will never possess the power to steal your glow.
Tell them my story.
Feed it to them forcibly and hold it down for them.
Make it known around the world who I am so these welts on my back and scars on my hands mean something.
Let them know, so the next time they want to call Black Women “Nappy headed Hos” they will think twice.
On a light note:
The last time I had a something dedicated to me was in 1992 on Detroit radio when a former girlfriend dedicated “Beat That Bitch with a Bat” to me. The next day I got jumped & it was not pretty.