Wednesday, July 27
SO FAR So far my sentence as a black woman has been hard to hone, homed in sore white pith. Put graciously, black womanhood has been a limb that's fallen asleep beneath me, paddy wagon of spinal cords in Baltimore's traffic up ahead. This whole color was a mistake, a leak in the ceiling whorehouse, a confused ass whooping. You see the baby in the blinds, the eager run in nylons, a public school lisp making room for the velour of her name. I was one of them. In gradeschool. It seemed my whole class had fallen asleep in front of a microwave. I drew faces on my galas then ate them off. God to me was a distantly gentle Aunt Notrie; brilliant completely, Virginia Slims and breadsticks, the shade on her side of Brewster slouched the coolish way Ford laborers deserved. Sunday she was an usher with one breast. I crept to the mom n' pop where a bell above the door snitched to mention my entrance. I tolled the bell. I was a toy to be bothered. I made a toyish mistake. In any black sentence you'd love nothing more than to make no mistake. (Courtney Faye Taylor)