To my Brothers,
Being black has always been one of things that defined me the most. It permeates everything that I am. From my hair choices to my career choice. Even whom I wanted to date and someday marry. Oh how I pictured my wedding. It was a grand day filled with bridesmaid in white carrying yellow orchids. Me in my yellow wedding dress just like the dress Belle wore when she danced with the Beast. Disney knows how to design a wedding I will tell you. And as I walked down the isle. My love, my king would turn to look at me. And he was you. He was a black man. He always was.
But then the realities of the dating jungle shattered my wedding dreams. I found myself and many of my nubian sisters on the bottom of the dating totem pole. Being black and being on the bottom is certainly nothing new, but having you, our black kings, putting us there and even working to keep us there hurt. It hurts something deep in my core that no one but you can touch.
We started out together. Both of us in chains and bondage. Both of us started at the bottom. Both of us died in the fields and at the hands of our masters. Our way of life and culture were stripped from us. Our babes were snatched from our breasts to be sold to the highest bidder. We had to marry in secret and pray that master wouldn't make me his belly warmer. And we held out for the day we would taste the sweet nectar of freedom. Some of you had been sold away from us and once we got free we searched for you. With our children strapped to our backs and all our worldly possessions in our hands. Some of us found you, many of us didn't, we had to settle down when we couldn't walk anymore. And we had to learn to make do for ourselves and our children.
Those of us that managed to find you were jubilant. But it was short lived as you had to go off and earn money where you could find paid work. You told us to stay home and hold down the fort and we did. While you joined the building of the railroad or took on "paid" work on the defunct southern farms. We raised our children and kept our communities alive. We grew strong and took on jobs in the homes of wealthy families, but we were always home to keep the fire going for your return. While you were away we learned how to take care of the family. We learned how to play catch with our son while we taught our daughter how to sew and cook. And when you came back we were running the house, not to depose you but because we had to learn to survive without you.
Now you laugh and scorn us. You complain that we are too independent and don't know how to treat a man. You sneer at our children and call them bastards. You lift your noses at are natural hairstyles and unadorned faces. You make fun of our traditionally African names. You debase our dark skin.
I've tried to date you. Lord knows I've tired. Despite that fact that you constantly compare my unwillingness for sexual adventure to the prowess and 101 sexual postions of White and Asian women. Irregardless of the tightening of your jaw when I had to put someone in their place with my typical neck rolling and finger pointing. Never mind the fact that though we both receive government assistant I am cast aside as the bane of society because I should be able to fend for myself. And Lord forbid I turn to you. Though you scoff at independent nature you loath me for asking you for helping.
You won't forgive us for not being white.
And though I consider myself a fighter, a damned good one. I was tired of fighting that battle. I was tired of trying to defend my blackness to you. I was tired of trying to be the submissive, docile, freak in the sheets and a woman the streets, Superwoman that you were looking for.
I was tired of trying to tone down my blackness and open my mind to the white side of life. I'm sorry, but I simply do not like anal sex and I shouldn't be subjected to the charge that "white girls do it and love it." I'm not sorry if I like to go to the club and have a man buy me a drink. I'm not sorry if I like getting my education to one day make more money than you (not the purpose of my degrees, but money is nice). I'm not sorry that I liked to have my car door opened some nights and other nights I want to hop behind the wheel of the car I'm paying for. I'm not sorry that I don't want to dress up as a French maid. And i'm not sorry that I want a marriage commitment from you before I allow you to take me to bed.
I am not sorry that I expect you to comfort me when I need a shoulder to cry on or to give me space when I need to be alone to fume. I am not sorry that I want you to protect me when there is a snake in the middle of the road and we are in the car. Fear makes me silly that way. I am not sorry that I have to wrap my hair at night and that you can't run your fingers through it. I am not sorry that sometimes getting my nails and toes done is more important than my cell phone bill.
I'm not sorry that when I get animated I got loud and rowdy. I'm not sorry that sometimes my temper runs away with me and I would rather settle an argument with a barrage of insults rather than calming words. I'm not sorry that when times got rough I had to take government assistance while it seemed like I was living large with my discounted Prada bags.
I'm a flea market supporter by the way.
I am sorry that you allowed the world to tell you things about me before you got to know me. I am not sorry that I am done apologizing about being the unique and wonderful black woman that I am. Which is the most beautiful thing about me.
And I am not sorry God made me black.
You nubian sister in arms,
Tommeh Bell
Being black has always been one of things that defined me the most. It permeates everything that I am. From my hair choices to my career choice. Even whom I wanted to date and someday marry. Oh how I pictured my wedding. It was a grand day filled with bridesmaid in white carrying yellow orchids. Me in my yellow wedding dress just like the dress Belle wore when she danced with the Beast. Disney knows how to design a wedding I will tell you. And as I walked down the isle. My love, my king would turn to look at me. And he was you. He was a black man. He always was.
But then the realities of the dating jungle shattered my wedding dreams. I found myself and many of my nubian sisters on the bottom of the dating totem pole. Being black and being on the bottom is certainly nothing new, but having you, our black kings, putting us there and even working to keep us there hurt. It hurts something deep in my core that no one but you can touch.
We started out together. Both of us in chains and bondage. Both of us started at the bottom. Both of us died in the fields and at the hands of our masters. Our way of life and culture were stripped from us. Our babes were snatched from our breasts to be sold to the highest bidder. We had to marry in secret and pray that master wouldn't make me his belly warmer. And we held out for the day we would taste the sweet nectar of freedom. Some of you had been sold away from us and once we got free we searched for you. With our children strapped to our backs and all our worldly possessions in our hands. Some of us found you, many of us didn't, we had to settle down when we couldn't walk anymore. And we had to learn to make do for ourselves and our children.
Those of us that managed to find you were jubilant. But it was short lived as you had to go off and earn money where you could find paid work. You told us to stay home and hold down the fort and we did. While you joined the building of the railroad or took on "paid" work on the defunct southern farms. We raised our children and kept our communities alive. We grew strong and took on jobs in the homes of wealthy families, but we were always home to keep the fire going for your return. While you were away we learned how to take care of the family. We learned how to play catch with our son while we taught our daughter how to sew and cook. And when you came back we were running the house, not to depose you but because we had to learn to survive without you.
Now you laugh and scorn us. You complain that we are too independent and don't know how to treat a man. You sneer at our children and call them bastards. You lift your noses at are natural hairstyles and unadorned faces. You make fun of our traditionally African names. You debase our dark skin.
I've tried to date you. Lord knows I've tired. Despite that fact that you constantly compare my unwillingness for sexual adventure to the prowess and 101 sexual postions of White and Asian women. Irregardless of the tightening of your jaw when I had to put someone in their place with my typical neck rolling and finger pointing. Never mind the fact that though we both receive government assistant I am cast aside as the bane of society because I should be able to fend for myself. And Lord forbid I turn to you. Though you scoff at independent nature you loath me for asking you for helping.
You won't forgive us for not being white.
And though I consider myself a fighter, a damned good one. I was tired of fighting that battle. I was tired of trying to defend my blackness to you. I was tired of trying to be the submissive, docile, freak in the sheets and a woman the streets, Superwoman that you were looking for.
I was tired of trying to tone down my blackness and open my mind to the white side of life. I'm sorry, but I simply do not like anal sex and I shouldn't be subjected to the charge that "white girls do it and love it." I'm not sorry if I like to go to the club and have a man buy me a drink. I'm not sorry if I like getting my education to one day make more money than you (not the purpose of my degrees, but money is nice). I'm not sorry that I liked to have my car door opened some nights and other nights I want to hop behind the wheel of the car I'm paying for. I'm not sorry that I don't want to dress up as a French maid. And i'm not sorry that I want a marriage commitment from you before I allow you to take me to bed.
I am not sorry that I expect you to comfort me when I need a shoulder to cry on or to give me space when I need to be alone to fume. I am not sorry that I want you to protect me when there is a snake in the middle of the road and we are in the car. Fear makes me silly that way. I am not sorry that I have to wrap my hair at night and that you can't run your fingers through it. I am not sorry that sometimes getting my nails and toes done is more important than my cell phone bill.
I'm not sorry that when I get animated I got loud and rowdy. I'm not sorry that sometimes my temper runs away with me and I would rather settle an argument with a barrage of insults rather than calming words. I'm not sorry that when times got rough I had to take government assistance while it seemed like I was living large with my discounted Prada bags.
I'm a flea market supporter by the way.
I am sorry that you allowed the world to tell you things about me before you got to know me. I am not sorry that I am done apologizing about being the unique and wonderful black woman that I am. Which is the most beautiful thing about me.
And I am not sorry God made me black.
You nubian sister in arms,
Tommeh Bell
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