From the color of my skin, to the texture of my hair, to the length of my strands, to the breadth of my smile,
To the stride of my gait, to the span of my arms, to the depth of my bosom, to the curve of my hips, to the glow of my skin,
My Black is Beautiful.
It cannot be denied. It will not be contained. And only I will define it.
For when I look in my mirror, my very soul cries out,
My Black is Beautiful.
And so today, I speak it out loud, unabashedly, I declare it anew,
My Black is Beautiful.
Whether celebrated, imitated, exploited or denigrated. Whether natural from inside or skillfully applied,
My Black is Beautiful.
I speak for us all when I say again,
My Black is Beautiful.
"How are you supposed to keep your man with your hair in that mess, Tamia?"
"And has your hair been looking like that all week?" She went on talking about my hair now, considering it was blown-out instead of well kept, hot combed and straightened the way that she liked.
"No, mama." I dragged, annoyed completely now with all of my peace gone in this moment.
"I just got out of the shower and I just finished washing and blow-drying my hair."
"I'm going to hot comb it and then flat iron it when I'm finished doing my skincare."
"Yasin's not going to be home until tomorrow probably anyway." I threw in there but of course she wouldn't chastise him about why and where.