Originally Posted on From Rae With Love

I’m the kind of girl who tends to see people as they can and could be.  I see their potential.  Their good qualities.  I see the hurt.  I’m looking often to understand people and why they do the things they do.  I also am a nurturer.  Somewhat of a rescuer and as my good friend Rodd Klever and two other friends have told me recently that…..

I’m soft.

 
What's a girl who loves fashion but hates the industry to do? Racism is fashion's constant companion, and the pair won't soon separate. It seems every season a major designer must be chastised for exploiting "exotic" prints and images or excluding models color. And every season these designers attempt to justify their bigoted missteps as byproducts of the artistry. There is, however, no explanation for why these earrings depicting the cartoonish heads of dark-skinned black women made it into Dolce & Gabbana's recent runway show.

Cross-posted from The Intersection of Madness & Reality

I helped kill Lauryn Hill, and I regret it. In truth, we all let her die, even as she fights for her life, we simply are allowing one of our most prolific people to be eaten by a system she has tirelessly attempted to fight with her weapon of choice, a voice.

Though most of us will never understand her movements, her soul is parallel to those who have chosen to die on their feet rather than live on their knees. Unlike most of us, who prefer a good beat, a good piece of ass, a great weave and a promotion, and we’re good, the path she has taken is not for the weak-minded or weak-spirited. Lauryn lives a bipolor existence — on one hand, she is adored like a Goddess — and on the other she is perpetually defamed.

On September 17, the one-year anniversary of Occupy Wall Street instead of hearing about the 99% we heard about the 47% who according to Mitt Romney: 

“will vote for the president no matter what… are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. That’s an entitlement. And the government should give it to them. And they will vote for this president no matter what…These are people who pay no income tax.”(Ezra Klein; Washington Post Wonkbook ) 

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been told how “good” my hair is. Men and women have stopped me on the streets and adorned me with compliments, friends and family have reveled on my length and texture, and I’ve always been made to believe that my mane is more precious than gold mines nestled in the heart of Africa.  My hair has caused arguments and fights, snarling glares from envious girls, jealousy from friends, and hate from females whose names I don’t even know.

No one can take feminism from women of the African diaspora. It is a black woman's birthright because we could never seek solace in the protections of womanhood narrowly defined. It is ours, yet it seems at every turn, someone is trying to wrestle it from us. Since her appearance at this year's Democratic National Convention, Michelle Obama has again been placed at the center of an old debate regarding her feminist credentials.

I never wanted to be a housewife. It’s a thankless job with no vacations or holidays. Not to mention I absolutely hate cooking and cleaning. In an age where women can be anything from a NASCAR driver to Secretary of State, why would we willingly choose to stay at home all day dusting and folding laundry?


I should say that my narrow-minded views were based on images of TV housewives – women like Carol Brady who lived in a mythical land called Suburbia and wielded super-human powers. They could solve a family crisis, help with homework and prepare a delicious meal in less than thirty minutes. They were also always white. To a black girl from the inner city, the concept couldn’t be any more foreign. I grew up with a single, working mother and aspired to be more like Clair Huxtable than June Cleaver. In my dreams, I always thought I would be a successful wife/mother/businesswoman.

Even if the magazines say that my thighs are too wide to fit these $200 jeans; these are the same thighs that lift me up and let me walk. These thighs let me run away from danger and run toward tomorrow. These thighs are just fine.

Even if the magazines say that my calves aren't slim enough in their shape; these are the calves that contract when I cannot reach.  These calves allow me to stretch higher, whether it's to reach a high shelf or to reach closer to God Himself. These calves are just fine.