What if Medusa was a Black Woman?

They say racism wasn’t for the Gods, but I know the truth. It started with them. We see the same story play out time after time. Innocent Black woman exists. White man uses his power. Robs her of her innocence. White woman blames the Black woman. If the story sounds familiar, then you’ve probably seen it before. Colonizer and the colonized. Slave owner and the enslaved. Poseidon and Medusa. All stories as old as time itself. You just have to really hear them to know they’ve always been the same.

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Medusa was beautiful. Chestnut skin. Big eyes filled with pools of stardust and chocolate. Long curly dreads adorned with jewels. She was one of a kind. She wasn’t the type of person you could fool. Her piercing eyes could tell real from fake in 2 seconds. She was an observer. Quiet. Waiting. Like a lioness ready to pounce to protect her own. Her curly locs always did a little dance as she watched you. Like they were waiting to welcome you in or push you out depending on her judgment. Many came to her for guidance, advice, and more because of her natural ability to help others. Her family loved her. Her village loved her. She was their beacon of light, hope, and a symbol of love. She was perfect. Until Poseidon came.

Poseidon. God of the sea and earthquakes. He was almost the color of marble. Tall, strong, with watery blue eyes. Most would even call him beautiful, but who am I to judge? He walked the land as he walked the sea -- confident that he owned everything in its path from the smallest grain of sand to the largest tree. He was owed nothing of the land, but still had the power to move it. When Poseidon was near, you could feel the Earth move slowly under your feet as if you were being rocked upon a boat. Depending on his mood, it could be a gentle wave or a raging storm.

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Medusa had always known of Poseidon, but hated him and his grandiose view of himself. Her eyes always clouded over when he was close by and her hair seemed to stand straight on end: as if about to attack. She hated him. But of course he could not (or would not) see this. He would come to Medusa’s land to court her. Medusa always said no. Always declined. Always tried to stay far away from the man that made the Earth shake. Poseidon would later say that Medusa's beauty had enchanted him to do the things he came to do to her. That it wasn’t him that was the problem. It was always her. That becoming a monster on the outside was because that’s who she truly was on the inside.

The day Poseidon stole Medusa’s innocence is a day many will not forget, though for the wrong reasons. She was alone that day. Out for a walk on a warm, moonlit evening. Usually surrounded by her sisters, family, and friends, she soaked in the comfortable quiet that gave her a chance to think. To organize her thoughts. To plan for the life she was meant to have with the family she loved. She didn’t hear him until it was too late, enjoying the sounds of evening and her own company. She didn’t feel him because when she realized what was happening, she didn’t feel anything. Not anger. Not sadness. Not hurt. Just the sinking realization that she had always known that this man, with skin of marble and raging blue eyes, would rob her of everything she was and could have been. Poseidon left as quickly as he came, but not without celebrating his conquest. That night, every villager in Medusa’s once whole village felt like their world was coming undone. They felt the ground shake without remorse like it was reminding them that it controlled everything about them and nothing else. The villagers prayed to the Gods, to Poseidon, to save them. To keep them safe. Their prayers must have worked, or so they thought, because just as quickly as it had started shaking, the Earth stopped.

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And then there was Athena. Athena, the Goddess of War. She was the color of soft buttercream. Eyes golden as if scooped straight from the sun on a warm day. She was beautiful. And vengeful. She had a thirst for war anywhere she could find it even if it meant creating one herself. Athena had always thought Poseidon was unfit to be a God. But what she hated more than anything, was that he didn’t love her. And how could anyone not love Athena?

When Poseidon stole Medusa’s innocence, Athena knew. Gods always know. Athena felt her chest break slightly. Like something was amiss. Like someone’s world was being crushed. In fact, someone’s world was being crushed. Medusa’s. But Athena decided the pain was hers. That it was her world that was ending. Athena cursed Medusa’s name. Swearing to avenge her broken heart by vowing Medusa would never have Poseidon’s heart again. And thus her plan was born.

First, she cried. But only when the others were looking. Perseus. Poseidon. Hermes. She gathered them to hear Poseidon’s tale of the seductress Medusa that tricked him. Athena told them that such disrespect of the Gods should be punished severely. That Medusa must be an example for others like her. The ones with skin the color of coconut husks. Eyes full of darkness and aggressive attitudes to match. That if Medusa could do such a thing, then the rest of them surely would. The punishment: Medusa shall lose every piece of her beauty. Her darkened skin will turn black from the evil in her heart. Her hair will stay coiled, but become the slippery serpents they always seemed to mimic. Her deadly eyes that always rejected Poseidon will reject every man by turning them to stone with one stare. A punishment fit for the crime. A punishment immediately served with a swiftness that caught Medusa by surprise.

An evening before, she was being soothed by her family after her world was robbed. The next, she was exiled from everyone she loved because they all feared her. The face they once basked in, they ran from. The eyes they once yearned to view, they hid from. The skin they once praised, they brutalized with stones to keep her away. And so. She left. Finding refuge in a cave where no people, no Gods, nothing could find her. No one could see her or be hurt by Athena’s brutal curse that wrongfully punished her instead of the true criminal, the God of the sea. Alone. She had lost everything because of the Gods and vowed to never come close to anyone ever again. Until me.

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And after this. You know the story. The rest is the same as the stories the world has always heard. Athena, still thirsty for revenge, sends Perseus to kill Medusa with the mirror shield. He kills her. He takes her head. Athena uses it as a trophy. The same disgusting ending we all know, but built on a story that has always been wrong.

And I know you wonder. How do I know all of this? How could one person know any of this story? Be trusted to know the truth of Medusa. I know because I am the daughter of Medusa and Poseidon. I am the aftermath of a stolen innocence. I am the one that watched them take her head. I am the one they left behind. I am the one cursed to watch her death happen over and over and over again.

My mother had me soon after they turned her with that magic that was so powerful, I can still feel it in my bones. She kept me a secret. Her hair, full of snakes, did not create fear in me. They protected me. They watched over me. They told me secrets only serpents could know. About everlasting life. About how my mother would always live in rainbows of brown. About a world destined to repeat the same pattern that my mother fell to. Innocent Black woman exists. White man uses his power. Robs her of her innocence. White woman blames the Black woman. The serpents prepared me for the mortal world, but not one of the Gods. Not for when they took her. And once she was gone, all I was left with was silence.

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If what the serpents told me is true. Then there is beauty to it. Medusa lives in every woman with skin in all rainbows of brown. Strong. Fierce. Protectors. Watchful eyes. Beautiful, bouncy curls that whisper sweet sounds when you touch them. A strong spirit built to withstand because Medusa could not, though she tried. Medusa may be gone, but she left them a gift —- the power to turn others to stone. But not just men. Anyone that strives to wrong another woman that looks like her. She rooted it deep in them, left like a seed to grow and be mastered with each generation that continues to thrive, passed down from every mother to her daughter. Just like my mother passed down her power to me. She passed it to you. Hidden in the soft curls of our hair. Waiting and growing slowly, but surely.

But, if Medusa lives on, then so does Poseidon in every other man and Athena in every other woman with skin the color of open palms. There will be Poseidons around every corner ready to pounce on an unsuspecting Medusa and an Athena ready to protect him and everything he stands for, for no real reason other than vengeance. Men and women who believe they are endowed with the power of the Gods for no reason other than having skin like marble. Based on stories that are no more than embellished tales. There is a reason you have not heard stories of the other Gods, the Gods with coiled hair and skin dipped in color, smooth as chocolate.

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But let this be a warning to the Athenas and the Poseidons that continue to hunt Medusas century after century. Your Gods are gone. And the power they sought since the days of Athena and Poseidon was never true power, but only the feeling of it. A feeling that allowed them to conquer worlds, enslave millions, and create a hierarchy that never should have existed. That in theory doesn’t exist, but was still made into reality. And as we move further and further away from the time of their Gods, Medusa’s daughters grow stronger and stronger until one day, we'll be ready to win the war.