You can only see the morning through her eyes of the sun. She is free in her wildness. She is a wanderess, a drop of free water that splits into other millions. She belonged to no man and no city: the Woman of color.
Of many communities I’ve encountered throughout my life and of all women’s struggles I’ve heard, seen or experienced, the black woman has always been placed superior in my heart and mind.
Women of all communities, nationalities and backgrounds are surviving everyday as second class citizens. But what is alluring about the black woman is her genuinity -in silence- surviving as a woman of color in the world, and as a second class citizen in her patriarchal society. A black woman is observed to be the strongest with her femininity in illuminating changes and shifting tides for the sake of her community as a whole as big as a large group or as small as a few family members. She is moved by the compulsion to invent, to make and to change as a human being Not as a mother, sister or a wife; but Her.
A black grandma once advised me that our bodies are not sacred temples because temples can be destroyed, but they are forests; thick canopies of maple trees and sweet scented wildflowers sprouting in the underwood. We grow back over and over again as thick as hard and strong from the outside, and as radiating and alluring like a huge flame from the inside -pure original femininity- no matter how badly we are destroyed.