i am a Black woman.
my mantra is
Black
Excellence.
i have hair
growing from my scalp
like flora,
or a flower,
a coiled and textured
plant
growing towards the sky.
i buy different products:
special.
my hair’s so strong
it breaks combs.
my hair and i
are of the Earth
and that rich shade of brown
that is Mother Nature.
a melanated mixture
of cocoa butter
and coconut oil
and i’ll sit in the sun
as long as I please.
but
i am an African
and this is my home
only it is not.
i am not just Black
to the dark-skinned
folks whose ancestors
were taken from our
continent. I am
foreign.
the language of my
mother-tongue is a
harsh cacophony
of consonants, too African.
two anthems wage war
on my spirit
and a war wages
in that horned country
once beautiful
now broken.
trust me
i’d go back to where i came from
if i could.
but
i am Muslim
and you see it
when you look at me.
i announce this
with only a glance
in my direction.
i don’t even
need to speak.
but to some,
(a select few)
in the sisterhood
of Black Queens,
my headscarf says
i’m not quite
Black enough.
as if they’d have to
foresee
this 4C hair
to believe it.
the crown is still
there, Queens,
it is only covered.
and to some others,
(a select few)
who resemble me
in the cloth wrapped
around their faces,
my dark skin says
i’m not quite
Muslim enough.
no, I am not Arab
but to some this
comes as amusing,
or confusing.
oh, my hair?
well, you see
i am a Black woman…
so,
here are
three boxes
each of which
i do not fully
belong.
but I do not think
of this as unfortunate.
i am almost
as unique
as my name.
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