“Who taught you to hate your self from the highest of your head to the soles of your toes?”
This query–posed by Malcolm X on Could fifth, 1962, on the funeral of Ronald Stoke, a younger man murdered by the LAPD–is a query that my physique, newly wearing perimenopausal hormones, has questioned at 3 within the morning when gripped by insomnia.
Whose phrases created the dam that induced me to second-guess my ideas, making a reservoir that has nourished many however drowned me?
What photographs have disillusioned me into believing that I’m unworthy to sit down in stunning areas with my golden locs, richly melanated pores and skin, and full physique?
How did I persuade myself that the being as soon as referred to as “good” by the creator must be reworked into requirements enculturated by fashionable society?
A lot of my womanist lens is cultivated from the attitude that my daughter, Tabitha Odette, is doing as I do, not essentially as I say—an countless paradigm in parenting. I have interaction with myself and society, understanding that I’m instructing her what to simply accept from others and easy methods to deal with herself by way of my instance.
She notices once I look within the mirror, pinch the aspect of my thigh, and complain about how I’m not seeing outcomes quick sufficient from my time spent within the fitness center. She sees me as stunning and hears me proclaim that I’m not ok.
