My momma is Black. My sister is Black. I’ve dated some beautiful ass Black women. I have a beautiful and wonderful little beacon of joy, and she’s 3 months Black. I got Black cousins and aunts, and I know mad Black people. I ain’t an expert on being Black, but if we had to do one of them Twitter vote thingies, and set out to poll folks on my level of expertise-- as far as the Black experience goes-- I’d say I’m right up there between Rev. Al Sharpton and Max B. So, I feel like I can justifiably talk my shit for Black women.
I had a White woman (who shall remain nameless) once ask me, “Why are Black women so angry?” I chuckled out loud because I was glad she had asked me that, and not one of my other sisterly counterparts. 'Cause they both might have ended up on one of those 30-Second-Fights Twitters or on World Star’s homepage for the brutal Mortal Kombat slaying that would have taken place. Like, ole’ girl woulda needed all the flower plants from Mario-- plus the cheat code to beat Mike Tyson in Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out-- to stop the A-Town stomp ass whopping that would have taken place. So, I chuckled and calmly explained oppression and misogyny and racism and lack of representation and resources, and also had to explain that her statement and idea was as false as Kim K’s everything.
I firmly believe that walk-across-this-bridge-for-some-cheesecake Dylan from the original Making The Band should walk behind every single Black woman spitting hot fiyah about her before she gets to the end of her block. Nike should create a sneaker called “Fine Ass Black Women” and a picture of Beyonce flipping her hair should replace the Jumpman logo for said sneaker. And the sponsors for the sneaker could only be little Black girls from urban communities. Because ain’t nothing more magical then seeing little Black girls beam up, outside of seeing little Black girls beam up in, like, cute Halloween animal costumes. Anytime I imagine my daughter in one of them little lamb or lion costumes? Man, listen.
I believe all Black women should be given reserved parking spots, because the system has violated them for so long, they deserve that space right in front of the Piggly Wiggly because a sister who had had to deal with being catcalled, asked if “it’s hers” and “can I touch it” or the quintessential 99 cent classic “how does it feel to be with a Black man? Is it true?” (P.S. the answer is yes. Moving on…) deserves to be able to hop out the whip and walk right into the aisle with Just for Me ads at the front.
Sisters should have national holidays like Wish a Motherfucker Would Day or Say That One Time Day or *insert hand clap emoji here*, for all the times they’ve been tried by dusty ass brothers asking them to “just smile” or “if you ain’t dress like then I wouldn’t have a, b, c, d, whateva, whateva”. Don’t tag me with “all women matter." I’m not here for the shits. Not today, Satan. I love all women, like really I do: Brown, Yellow, Puerto Rican, Haitian (waddup Phife)…Blasian, Russian, Jewish, whatevs. I crush hard for Blythe Danner and Helen Mirren. I watch Friends and Seinfeld. I love everybody. But, just keeping it all the way classy and one hunnid and fifty, Black women deserve medals for waking up in the morning. I think Black women should be hand delivered bowls of Wheaties from Michael Jordan in his dad jeans every single morning, just for deciding to lift their heads off their pillows, unwrap their doobies, and go along with their days. In a world where Black voices are silenced on the daily, Black women’s voices gotta be risen at least 3 octaves higher just to get the same amount of love that anyone else carrying a lower note would receive.
And, while we’re on that topic, enough with letting men like Steve Harvey and Tyrese “knock a chair down in a chef’s jacket” and Reverend “used to wear dookie gold chains but now prophesize from the bathtub” Run sell you the idea that they are equipped to tell you as a Black woman what is and isn’t appropriate for YOU. Because I damn sure know Tyrese "Baby Boy" Jody ain’t fittin’ to let no sister tell him to stop rapping and just make those R&B records and Fast & Furious 2,398 movies we love.
Every Black woman should be allowed to have mini version of Obama in their pocket that yells an obligatory “hey,” and “girl, you look so good” every time a major accomplishment happens:
You get the promotion before Becky or Susan. The barista finally spells AND says your name right. A dude helps with your stroller or gives up his seat for you. Your nails ain’t chip. Ya' man ain’t say nothing dumb on Twitter…the little things that can ruin the day of all the Wonder Women out there. Black women should also be allowed to nunchuk anyone who walks by them without throwing rose petals at their feet like “Coming to America" is filming.
Some may want to call this pandering or whatever…I could give two large entire fucks. I am currently eating peanut butter I copped from Duane Reade in a jar, in my boxer drawz, in bed, whilst typing these amendments. I give all that information for the context of all the lacks of fucks I have to give at the present moment. Yes, I have decided that these are amendments and should be treated and read as such. We might have to start a campaign, and have Oprah spearhead it. Because, let’s keep it all the way real, Oprah probably got the patent to turn water to wine somewhere in her cupboard, right next to Martha Stewart’s ankle bracelet. The campaign would also feature Beyonce and Rihanna, Missy Elliot, Misty Copeland and Serena Williams, and Ava Duvernay and Viola Davis and Kerry Washington and Michelle Obama, and that little Black girl in a leotard from that Vine a few years back that ain’t wanna do it for the Vine, but then definitely wound up doing it for the Vine; because it is only natural that a Black woman would be asked to show out, state she would not show out, then proceed to entirely show the fuck out for all of eternity.
*Also, gotta add this…it’s 12:57 AM Eastern Standard Time on a Saturday, which means the Dominican family downstairs from me is blasting Bachata on full Aventura mode. I just watched a video of Drake in a rugby polo, performing “Hotline Bling” at someone’s Bar Mitzvah in New York City. What!? We gotta get in on that. We just gonna go ahead and add that to the list of shit Black women deserve to have. Like, that should be Black wimmenz alarm clock, Drake walking up to you while you in your comforter, singing “Hotline Bling” to you, at Ying Yang Twin “whisper” levels.*
Joel L. Daniels is a writer, actor, father, emcee and dreamer, and story-teller, born and raised in the Bronx. He was the recipient of the Bronx Council of the Arts BRIO Award for poetry, and his work has been featured in the Columbia Journal, The Boston Globe, Thought Catalog, The Smoking Section, Blavity, Huffington Post, BBC Radio, RCRD LBL, URB, BRM, AllHipHop, The Source, RESPECT, and HipHopDX. He's spoken/performed at the Apollo Theater, Joe's Pub, Rockwood Music Hall, Columbia University, The National Black Theater, NYU, Webster Hall, Pianos, and Brooklyn Bowl.