To Be Woman and Black

As a woman in this country I must express my sorrow. 

Mike Brown. Eric Garner. Trayvon Martin. Freddie Gray.

All these men I have marched for. I have held up my hands, I have shouted for their freedom in the pouring rain, I have angrily defended the lives of black men in this country. But…what about me?

My sister. My friend. My cousin. My co worker.

All these women I have prayed for. I have cried with them when they were violated, I have talked them off the ledge of anxiety when they wanted to jump, I have waited with them to finally experience breakthrough. But…what about me?

Black men’s lives matter. Women deserve equality and respect. But what about the silent cries of the forgotten? Black women.

I remember growing up not liking the color of my skin. I didn’t think it matched my clothes, and I could only wear certain colors because of it’s hue. I have felt like a plan B in comparison to fair-skinned woman who seemed to get more attention than me. I have had to listen to guys say that black is not beautiful…in fact it is ugly, and they don’t want their kids to have dark skin. I have felt the fear of seeing a confederate flag on my neighbor’s house. I have avoided certain white adults, because I knew they looked down on me. I have viewed myself as inferior to a race this country was built for.

To be black and a woman.

To be woman and black.

What about us? What about the countless dark skinned queens I have had to convince of their own beauty. What about the depression we try to hide, because we are supposed to be the strong ones (on whom the family depends). What about us? After all the support we supply to everyone around us, who shows up to defend us? Who protects us? On whose shoulder do we lean?

Who?

To be black and a woman.

To be woman and black.

I thank God for His love and protection, because it seems I have been forgotten by the very lives I fight for.