This is the first is the FRN Women’s History Month Reflection Series which will highlight pieces and perspectives that speak to the Women’s History Month through the lens of the #BlackLivesMatter Movement.
First up is an amazing piece of prose written by Julian Long that was shared via Facebook:
This is about Black Women – Julian Long
This ain’t about to be an all women moment. Because all women ain’t had it like you. All women ain’t got it like you. All women can’t get this. Just you. I want to take this moment to talk you Black woman.
I didn’t say anything when I heard her talking slick. It is as it ever was. New day, same shit.
You glide by and she, Small and Petty; just can’t. Just can’t stand and the stink of your magnificence. It offends her sensibilities and so small petty words flew aimlessly, recklessly. But not harmlessly– and before I knew what happened you and your hair were cut.
Knowing you as I do I thought those words ( like the others. God, SO many others) would just roll right off your magnificent curves and silken skin- but sometimes I guess the words just sink in. And that’s when it sunk in- it’s been too long since we, maybe just me, I–celebrated you and the skin you’re in. So let me begin.
The only thing difficult about praising the Black woman is being concise. Because you display beauty in every shade of brown, grace in every shape from rail thin to round. I want to lose my fingers in the lush dark garden on your crown, and in your cascading tresses when you let it fall down – dammit I wanna drown in you. I want to take 30 showers in the sweetness of you. I love the smell of your skin and the butter you cover it in. When I hug you I want to pull you into me dip my head in the tiny space between us an just breathe. I want to inhale you, take you in my chest and get dizzy off the high of your potency.
I don’t care about the length of you hair – just the breath of it. Because one waft when you walk by and I get reminded of the histories written up in the scrolls of your curls and legends lingering in your tendrils. I’ve breathed the life of your hair since the days of Blue Magic, long before you met Carol’s Daughter. On porches between sissy’s knees and in chairs under sistergirl’s hands secrets to life and laughter are locked up in each twist, strand, loc and braid –and when you got it laid? It’s displayed in the way of your sway, and your walk leaves a wake that’s too much for them to take and they say small words that sting to try to make you fall. But don’t trip. Know this; I’ve breathed deep all the tonic tinctures creams and oils you’ve anointed your head with and marveled at the chemistry in your body that made it a part of the perfume of you. And from what I’ve found to be true, the real miracle is you.
You are magical to me. Escape artist who got loc’d to get free. Wavy physiques and bone straight tresses, Bald heads held high in cocktail dresses, Bantus that be like, “Damn, boo”, and Super- Natural women (it’s hard to be concise like I said in the beginning) And even if you bought it — you got it. That’s just a head dress for your highness. Magnificence. That’s what wafts by when you walk by in flyness.
Your hair smells like home and care and the hours and years you spent getting it there. And days you wanted to hide it and the nights you let it all hang. No shame. And the other nights you slept with your neck off the pillow because you had got it laying just like it should (and just so you know. I saw you that day- and yeah – you looked good.) I see you. I see you everyday. I see you on those days when you hope I don’t because you just threw something on and didn’t have anybody to impress and that’s just what’s so impressive is that you did anyway without even trying. And if I said I wasn’t looking we both know that I’m lying because you command attention. So don’t pay it. Don’t pay none to Small and Petty– let her say it. And when she’s done with her 15 minutes lay your head on my shoulder and let me spend an eternity inhaling your magnificence.