Subconscious Civil Rights

I have been reading reviews of the movie The Help that came out this past week. The movie is based on the book of the same name and from what I read is the fictional coming of age story of a white woman in 1960s Mississippi.

After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.

Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.

Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.

This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.

I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I am a horny virgin subconsciously on a mission to show black female sexuality in a non animalistic, Jezebel way which is the total opposite end of the stereotype spectrum.

Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.

This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.

Sucks to be me.

If I were a poet

If I were a poet I would say

When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close

If I were a poet I would say

You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word

If I were a poet I would say

That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression

If I were a poet I would say

Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you

If I were a poet I would say

That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them

But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you.