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7 Things To STOP Saying To Black Women About Beauty


1) Stop calling our natural hair ugly.

2) Stop approaching our natural hair with a hierarchy than reinforces colourism.

3) Stop using placement in the natural hair community to bully Black women who may still have relaxed hair or weaves.

4) Stop saying “she’s pretty…for a dark-skinned woman.”

5) Stop saying “she’s pretty…for a big/fat woman.”

6) Stop implying that any biracial women who identify as Black or any light skinned Black women are the only ones that are attractive, and stop acting like any Black woman who deviates from this appearance should be “lucky” to have a man, regardless of how utterly lousy that man might be. Love is not something to be rationed out like a commodity only for those who are closest to appearing White.

7) Stop saying “you’re too pretty to be single.” Attraction to someone has NOTHING to do with THEIR choice to pursue a relationship or not. This is inherently patriarchal and in fact not even a logical thing to say.

Who should stop this? ANYONE who does it (that’s you White and people of colour), INCLUDING other Black men and Black women. Reject White supremacist, Eurocentric and patriarchal thoughts about beauty.

(via witchsistah)


We Need to STOP Drinking the Kool Aid Ya’ll



So I went to a cypher ran at my school last night called “Death of Ignorance: The Wake” as a disclaimer, the whole theme of this cypher was a funeral for “Ignorance” in which all the performers participated in “mourning” ignorances death and halfway through a mock “protest” of the funeral happened by people who were overjoyed at Ignorance’s “death” so all the performances very well could have been satirical. That being said, the audience, made up of mostly black folks, reactions to them were not.

A majority of these performances were beyond comprehension ya’ll and just another example of how far we’ve crawled up White Supremacy’s ass that we can’t even smell the shit any more.

One girl got up on stage and railed against MAAB queer individuals and transmen, refusing to gender them properly and telling them that they were confused, that they were not and could not be “queens” and that they simply needed to accept the “king” inside them. 

Another woman got up and pontificated about the CARE program at my school (a program for first generation college students from low income areas) enforcing the dichotomy of “educated niggas” versus those that are too lazy or stupid to “get their shit straight”, and these “hoes” out here with their “neon bandeau tops”. 

Another man got up on stage and started telling black women how they “done fucked up” with their hoeish ways choosing men that don’t respect them and having too much sex and how we shouldn’t be surprised we can’t find true love if we are going to continue being such sluts “bent over” while we “sip on hennessy”. Started telling us about we as black people need to stop using the horrible shit done to us by white supremacy as an excuse for our “fuck ups”. 

In fact, one of the few performers I could respect all night (I left early to get ready for another event) was a woman who began her performance victim blaming and slut shaming so hard my mouth was hanging open. She criticized women for “crying rape” on “good black college men” who are finally raising the bar, asking them what to expect when they agree to get into bed with them only to FLIP it on the entire audience (who was cheering and snapping for this shit!) and tell them they need to go throw up the shit rape cultue has made them internalize if they fell for any of what she had just said (it was magnificent ya’ll, so many people we’re like…huh?)

But overall the audience was going WILD for these niggas, WILD for these people. These two girls next to me snapped til their fingers went sore as black people still living in low income areas, black people still without access to decent education, black women owning their sexuality, black women being sexual, and trans* and gay black men were torn down, degraded, and dehumanized by OTHER BLACK PEOPLE.

It was sickening ya’ll, absolutely sickening. It got me thinking so hard about how maybe I should get on some slam poetry to set these people straight. I thought it might go something like this:

we’ve got great grandmothers who still remember whips and chains, 
black families, threads torn and frayed, but forget that

we’ve got communities destroyed by drugs they were feeding us,
but ain’t it our fault we were eating it? so forget that

we want the safe happy homes, shoes, cars, and clothes
the humanity they say we never deserve to own
so we forget our own fathers, denounce our own brothers
call em ratchet and hood instead of supporting each other

a black man can still get shot just for walking down the street,
but we just look at him and shrug, he’s the nigga of the week

our daughters festishized, but we merely role our eyes 
maybe if she learned how to cover her thighs, she’d be respected
right? because her dark skin, invites sin
and don’t open up if you don’t want to let them in

we teach our sisters empowerment, by looking down on them
because you can’t have the S-E-X and still expect respect
can you? 

or is it we can keep our legs open, but keep our mouths shut
and because white women know how to do it so well
we’ll be diminished, hated on and defeated
by another “enlightened” black man who don’t remember the color of the teat he

and as for brothers kissing brothers, well the white man says it’s evil
so we’ll beat em and we’ll treat em like the diseases that they’re leaving
our communities in chaos because one man’s on the dl?
but would he feel the need to hide if we weren’t selling him to hell?
and our sisters kissing sisters don’t exist, just hoes who haven’t tasted that “good dick”? 

so we want to take back all the power, but we don’t want to be the teachers
we want to climb on the black backs of all these “hoodrats” till we’re one step closer to freedom, or the white man’s freedom, and as for our gay poor and still BLACK mothers, brothers, and sisters

they just “niggas” we don’t need em

(via deliciouskaek)



If Kristen Stewart can lose her job, risk losing her entire career, fanbase, and respect over cheating on her boyfriend, the fact that Chris Brown is still acknowledged and celebrated is a fucking crime. If you want a prime example of women’s inequality in the media, there it is. 

Funny how these complaints are never about white men like Charlie Sheen or Mel Gibson with records of domestic violence (and more!) who have managed to keep their careers afloat. Funny how despite the hype Kristen Stewart isn’t actually at risk of losing a damned thing.

(via alltruthwaitsinallthings-deacti)


The Patriarchy Even Denies Women The Right To Fully Love A Man


You know what pisses me off, even though women are supposed to be these passive creatures utterly devoted to their men, the patriarchy denies us the right to even fully and properly LOVE a man.  It denies us even enough agency to be allowed to care for and about a man the way men are women.

  • We’re supposed to wait to be protected by our knight in shining armor, we’re never allowed to stand up and fight alongside our partner.  Like if there’s a noise downstairs, and you actually CARE about someone, you don’t let them go down there alone to check it out, you grab a heavy object and you go downstairs with them, because two people are more capable of overpowering a wild animal or intruder than one.
  • We’re not supposed to care how men look, so we can’t think our boyfriend/husband/partner is the most fucking beautiful thing on earth, and we’re shallow if that was ANY part of the reason we chose to be with him.  Because we live in a heteronormative patriarchal society men aren’t ever supposed to be “attractive” or “sexy”
  • We’re supposed to passively receive expensive gifts and not give the same in return (semi-understandable with the wage gap, but still)
  • We’re supposed to let our men protect us, sacrifice themselves for us, and are somehow castrating harpies if we lift a finger to stand up for them in return.  It’s supposedly emasculating to be a man who has a woman who loves you enough to fight for you, and that’s REALLY fucked up, because if you really truly and completely love someone, you WILL stand up to help them when they need you.
  • We’re apparently “emasculating” our partners if we try to earn more money to help support them, or buy them nice things because we care about them.
  • We’re so fully objectified that we’re objects capable of receiving love and lust, but never giving them in return.

Instead we’re supposed to sacrifice our identities, our dreams in exchange for a white knight who will protect us from the scary world, and honestly, that’s not fucking romantic, that’s… if it were actually necessary the most purely mercenary thing I can think of doing.  We’re told women don’t like “nice guys” if we don’t date a white knight (and punished) because womanly love is actually supposed to be coldly pragmatic according to society, and we’re breaking the script if we don’t choose an option society sees as “The best host for our benevolent parasitism”  All we’re allowed to do (and therefore what we are ALWAYS supposed to do) is stroke wounded feelings and look pretty.

And fuck that, i don’t want to be forced to be a parasite, I don’t want to be the fragile pixie who’s character is defined be her romantic entanglement, I actually want to be allowed to be a person who loves another person, and is that actually too much to ask?

(via moniquill)


LOL at this notion that patriarchy will save the Black community


So you mean to tell us that forcing Black people to adhere to strict Christian based heterosexuality as the norm along with stringent gender policing to ensure that the man is always the ‘dominant’ force of the household is going to save us?

So that 60% sexual abuse statistic for Black women is going to go away with that shit?

How about the violence perpetuated by Black men in our own communities?

Or the number of super churches that ain’t doin shit for the Black communities they leech from?

Is the patriarchy going to actually give Black women roles outside of the Mammy drag that men like Tyler Perry love to do?

LOL at folks acting like patriarchy is some fucking benevolent force.

The show was literally for colored girls, which to me meant women-centered. Still nothing prepared me for the hateful response from African-American English-speaking males. for colored girls was meant for women of color. The poems were addressing situations that bridged our secret (unspoken) longing. for colored girls still is a womens trip, and the connection we can make through it, with each other and for each other, is to empower us all.

The reaction from black men to for colored girls was in a way very much like the white reaction to black power. The body traditionally used to power and authority interpreting, through their own fear, my work celebrating the self-determination and centrality of women as a hostile act. For men to walk out feeling that the work was about them spoke to their own patriarchal delusions more than to the actuality of the work itself. It was as if merely placing the story outside themselves was an attack. for colored girls was and is for colored girls.

Ntozake Shange (via wretchedoftheearth)

The more I see of black male privilege (which is separate & distinct from the privilege enjoyed by white males), the more I suspect that many of them can’t listen to us because they’re guilty of some/many of the same crimes they’re denying are important.

(via deliciouskaek)


phoetiquette asked: Hey. So this really is genuine curiosity, not a troll or a challenge, but can you elaborate on why/how misogyny in ‘black’ music is a product of racism?


You see, white d00dz set up this thing called the patriarchy a long time ago. We all live under it. We actively try to tear it down, but that hasn’t happened yet. In the patriarchy, masculinity is seen as ideal. At the same time, we live in a racist society (also set up by white d00dz, btw). In this racist society, white is seen as the ideal. Now think about black males growing up. We’re simultaneously told that masculinity is the most important thing a person can have, but we’re also told we can never be quite as good as a white man. After all, many of us don’t even have fathers at home, and if we do, we mostly see them working menial jobs that come with little to no respect, almost none of that awesome masculinity the patriarchy is constantly telling them they need. 

So, we develop this overly masculine culture to compensate for it. We can never compare to white men in the masculinity factor (which, again, the patriarchy is telling us is the most important thing ever) because we’re black (and, again, the racist society is telling us that white > black), so this overly masculine culture attacks anything the patriarchy tells us is less masculine than us: women, gays, trans* folks, non-athletic people, etc.

And then we make music. We make music about our culture, our culture which we want so badly to believe is our own, but has been shaped so much by the patriarchy and by racism. That music then reflects the negative things that have been ingrained in us by the systems white people set up, so imagine how I feel when white people act like misogyny in hip-hop is the cause of misogyny? No no no, white people, don’t blame black men for the misogyny that your men have been ingraining in us since the day we were born. Deal with your shit and we’ll deal with ours, but this shit started with you, not us. Many, many African cultures were matriarchies.

(via crankyskirt)





Pastor Sean Harris preaches to his congregation, “The second you see your son dropping that limp wrist, you walk over there and crack that wrist. Man up. Give him a good punch… and when your daughter starts acting too butch, you rein her in.” This is a man who claims to preach the word of God.

I cant even begin to say what i think about this. Its appalling that this is advice from a pastor on parenting. I’m just….. like and it happens everywhere often. People are being told that treating their children like this is ok. It hurts my heart.

this guy is wicked. 

Then Jesus called for the children and said to the disciples, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of God belongs to those who are like these children.

Luke 18:16

(via masteradept)


For those who think I rant about the patriarchy and misogyny too much




To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better.  Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore.  Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth.  Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge.  Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry.  Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love.  Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.

To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library.  Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his third-world home country to teach at its eight-year-old university.  Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American.  Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me.  Who won’t take a hint. 

To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything.  Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of?  Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that.  Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis.  Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.”  Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date.  Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times.  Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro.  Who has called me three times since.  Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics.  Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.

To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.

To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid.  Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.

To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater.  Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once.  Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives.  To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me. 

To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street.  To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face.  Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight.  Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.

To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention.  Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway.  Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.

But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration.  Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys.  Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.

And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain.  Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me. 

And that’s just two months in Paris. 

To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.

To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor.  Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment.  Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking.  Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.

To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.

To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top.  Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.

To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?”  Who was not being ironic.

(via masteradept)


To the men in my Ask Box, inquiring about my Feminist rants about Black men and their mistreatment of Black women.


Shut the fuck up.

Just shut the fuck up.

I don’t understand how hard it is for some of you to discern the difference between a generalization and the fact that you know it’s not applicable to ALL Black men.

When I and others were being routinely HARASSED by others on here, none of you seemed savvy enough to leap into our ask boxes and defend us, or reblog and rant about how fucked up it was that we were getting so much hate for being SURVIVORS OF RAPE.

But the minute one of us calls out misogyny against Black women, you’re all strapping up, marching around, brandishing your dicks like you’ve been challenged to a throwdown in the Thundrdome. Newsflash, Black men: I’m not obligated to give a fuck. The hit dog will holler, as the old adage goes, and how some of you have come yelping like kicked puppies in my replies and ask box for the last few days, missing the entire point of the post, and DEFENDING the men you know I was talking about.

And then when you come and say shit like this:

That was pretty rude. I don’t know what I’ve done to you to warrant that response from a simple statement such as you seeming so angry, apparently I was right though. I don’t know you, so I don’t think it’s at all possible for my feelings to be hurt by you lol. If you felt attacked, my apologies, but I do nothing of the sort. In fact I rarely spend time online. You’re pretty interesting. Attractive & passionate. I only hope that you are this active in your community for what you stand for.

No. Just. No.

You don’t get points for velvet-slapping me. And you certainly don’t get points for being a condescending sperm-stain about it either. I can be as angry, happy, sad, hurt, bitter, and ecstatic as I want to be. Why? Because I’m a fucking human being and I am allowed to have the broad ranges of emotions attributed to my species like any other. Being a woman doesn’t invalidate those feelings. Being a Black woman doesn’t invalidate those feelings.

And you—you bootlicking scum of men who have paraded like the Million Hurt Men March in my ask box—don’t invalidate those feelings either. And if you try, I’ll tear you a new asshole without regrets. Don’t try and butter up your insults with “You’re attractive and fierce”. Bitch, please. I know that. I don’t need you to tongue my ass while simultaneously trying to silence me for having a VALID OPINION on how Black women are treated, denigrated, and kicked around by society—especially by a lot of Black men.

Not once did I ever mention anything about my personal relationships with Black men. Not once, and yet most of the kicked puppies who are gnashing their teeth over it are somehow dragging speculations about my personal relationships into this. The mistreatment of Black women by Black men goes beyond romantic relationships, you narrowminded dickguzzlers. And anyone with half a brain and opposable thumbs can use BASIC DEDUCTIVE REASONING to come to that conclusion.

But you know what? I don’t really give a fuck, because every time one of you kicked puppies comes at me it just proves my fucking point. Will I continue to defend Black men against racism and prejudice? Of course, but defending you doesn’t mean you get a free pass from the bullshit YOU generate towards us Black women for doing so.

The end. Now shut the fuck up and keep scrolling.