Black Wombman

What does it mean to be black woman of midnight hue? A question that has held the world in captivity.

When I look in the mirror who do I see staring back at me? Is it a beautiful African queen who swam in the warmth of Sudan’s Red Sea, whose eyes are the darkest ebony? Whose skin has been baptized by a sun kissed copper glow that inflames mere men to seek to enslave this great and wondrous form. Whose attention is more sought after than the diamonds of Botswana? Or whose nurturing hypnotic hips has birthed and nourished a nation… no a civilization.

Do I see the greatness in the thickness of my lips, which curves around my smile, beckoning the most envious reactions? Is it my glossy black woolen tresses bedecked in the most stylish ancient of fashion, fashioned after the secrets my royal ancestors handed down to me? Do I’m see the enormity of the knowledge that is held within, beneath my sooty lashes that frame eyes that have known the knowledge from the founding of the world.

Can another simply look at me the way I look at myself and come to identify and know all that has brought this sable Queen to the presence of time? Could they know the lives that have been sacrificed and the hearts that have been broken so that I can stand proud, erect and regal? Could they count the number of my ancestors who have found their burial in the bottom of the deep black seas or know the weight of the blood of my people that has been spilt on coal colored soil of this land?

Is being counted among my people as simple as having an admiration for our strength and struggle. Can one rise above intense appreciation to become a fellow sharer in every sense of the word with the history, pain and anguish I carry within my belly. Is it that simple? Would you immerse yourself in my traditions and culture, my dance and song, in an attempt to identify, just to be close to the warmth of my skin? Assuming that my warmth would make you somehow feel a spiritual connection with the heartbeat of a million of souls lost from my great nation. Could you then look in the mirror and see my inky reflection staring back at you with pride?

Will my admirers come to know a fraction of the sufferings that I have come to know from witnessing the sons of God being cut down in an instant of time because of their dusky onyx complexion. Will they care that my backbone was strengthened by millions bent over in the noontime heat, engaged in unforgiving working, toiling to escape the end of the masters coiled whip. Or looking into the dead lifeless eyes of those who've received their judgement by the end of the noose.

What does it mean to be this proud Queen with royal linage that dates back to the earliest of time? Whose eyes have seen untold horror and whose back refuses to remain bent in defeat but who stands in defiance. Whose touch promises acceptance and understanding. Whose spirit soars high, unchained and free, swirling like the painful strokes embedded into my ebony skin. Who listens to the harrowing chant of those of my past, whose hands carry my feet to the promise of freedom and life. What does it mean to know my pain, to understand the passion that lies just below the quiet, undisturbed surface of my soul?

Could you really ever know, or come to know enough to imitate. Will you long to be ushered into the softness of my raven embrace to be cushioned against the roundness of my onyx orbs? To listen to low seductive tone of the melody of my people of long ago that emanates from my core. Becoming one with a heartbeat that has beat with the rhythm of an unbreakable nation, for ions of time. Once welcomed into my kingdom of charcoal glory could you then begin to know and understand?