Black Women: Who got us?

It’s been four months, and I’ve done a lot of soul searching.

Looking back at my love life, which consists of a plethora of unlearned lessons and long cries, I’ve found one factor to ring true continuously.

I’ve always had my mans back. When the world was against him, I was right by his side. I used to think I wasn’t doing enough because I could never make them stay.

Even when no effort was shown on his part, I broke my back trying to entertain his needs.

The black woman has been spat on, trampled and misused, however, the world still doesn’t understand why we’re so angry. It’s tiring loving without being loved, expecting to hold without being held.

My question is who got us?

Often, we’re our own enemy. The competition among black women seems unreal at times. Instead of appreciating and acknowledging the fact that your fellow women are dripping in black girl magic, there’s silence.

However, no matter how many compliments you hand out, that’s not making anyone fall heads over heels for you. So my question remains.

Who got us?

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Source: Pinterest.com

What I’ve found astonishing is this phrase: “White women are evolving.”

This sentence is usually accompanied by an image of a white woman with wide hips, the epitome of a coke bottle shape; the epitome of the black woman.

This phrase bothers me, not because white women are “trying to  be us” (a loose translation, but we can all come to a consensus on it’s overall depiction I’m sure), but because so many black men use this as an excuse to tear down the black woman. They use things like this to, in a sense, make us “get our act together.” Like they are the king of all kings and we must do nothing less than bow down at their feet.

My king you are mistaken.

During this four month revelation, I have also come across a few men that understand where I’m coming from. So, I’m not saying all of this to counter-destroy the black man. That’s not my goal at all. My goal is to shed light on the issue.

You were born to black mothers, with black sisters, and black grandmothers. Black aunts holding up your black uncles; Black cousins throwing dirt in your face, and stomping a mud hole in anyone who dares to call you four eyes (because only she can do it and get away with it).

So I’ll ask again: who got us?

Maybe I’ll have an answer in another four months.