Archives for July 2022

Warring with racists is not a “fist fight.”

It feels like I’m supposed to take it.
Accept the slurs, jeers, name calling.

The disrespect.

The nude pictures of pink penises telling me I’m their slave fetish and want me to crawl.

They, these “patriots,” come on my platforms and pollute them with skewed facts, righteous “rights,” and one-sided judgements of me and my People. They scream (in all caps) about the myth of “black on black” crime as if it were truth, not propaganda.

They denounce historical context, deny facts from any source that is not from their media messiahs. They — these ugly spirits — insult me, as well as the work of amazing content creators I share on my platforms.

And when I speak up and set boundaries, they call me out of my name.

(Gender)
Bitch.
Cunt.
Whore.

(Intellect)
Stupid.
Idiot.
Moron.

(Personal Power)
Weak.
Victim.
Sheep.

(Social Power)
Racist.
Trouble-maker.
Divisive.

As far as these “patriots” are concerned, they have the right, as Americans, to viciously attack (using written verbal violence) ANYBODY who does not agree with them.

Especially an educated, queer-identified, self-made millionaire Blackk Woman who gives zero #%^*s about respectability politics or catering to Ywite fragility, privilege, supremacy, or extremity.

They want to war, on their terms.
They assume a power that is historical.
They are use to winning by bullying.

They war by getting the biggest microphone to spread lies, misinformation, and discredit ANYONE who threatens their rapidly diminishing illusion of power.

It’s spiritual warfare since the dawn of man.

I’m realizing now why God raised me on the streets and reared me in violence.

I‘m comprehending why God orchestrated EVERY vile and bad thing I have survived.

I’m understanding why God sent me to Stanford, made me an entrepreneur, and gave me the microphone.

I was BORN for this.

There is a saying: nothing can stop an idea who’s time has come.

I’m that idea.

The one that kept our ancestors praying for a better tomorrow.

Our mommas washing floors to help but hand-me-down books so we could read.

Our daddies serving in the military to be seen as equal men in the eyes of hate at home from White folk.

Dr. King’s dream.

The idea of equality has been in our blood in this country since 1619.

America is about to tilt on its axis when it realizes that equality does not look like marches.

It looks like a poor little Black girl from the mean streets of Baltimore who has been given the megaphone…

…called television.

WARNING: POSSIBLY TRIGGERING POST.
******************************************
Being a girl-child wasn’t safe.
Without a father who protects, a poor Black girl-child is fair game.

Especially if she is shapely.

I was an unprotected girl-child.
From six to seventeen, my body was a problem due to other people’s fetishes.

Pedophiles.
Prostitutes.
Police.
Pimps.

It’s a lot to navigate to stay alive.

So I hid.
I hid in plain sight.
I hid in silence.
I hid in books.

Big, baggy, boy clothes worked the best.

I hated my female body for attracting attention, as if it were her fault.

I hated my booty because it is defined and protrudes out, inviting grabs, slaps, pinches, and rubs from women and men like.

I hated the hungry stares and vulture-like voices asking me if I wanted a “back door” delivery.

Or if they could eat out my ass like it were a joke I should find funny.

It took me DECADES to stop punishing my body for being a Black female body.

In December 2018, I reclaimed my body as my own with a dragon tattoo that covers three fourths of the right side of my body.

I have been ashamed of my body because of what has been done to it. As I heal and mature I am learning my booty was NEVER at fault.

I was never at fault.
I did not bring it on myself.
I did not make them hurt me.

I am now fifty and am starting to feel safe in my female/feminine body.

I’m starting to not be ashamed of not being a size 2.

I’m eating what I want without worrying about more celulite.

I think I am fat.
My Pilates instructor sees me as athletic.
Some people see me as beautiful.

Black girl booty produces a gap in the back of my pants. I’m learning how to dress me with clothes that fit my small waist, thick thighs, and bulbous butt.

I bought three pair of Pilates pants today because they made me feel like a goddess!!! Who knew the right fit would usher in shameless self-acceptance.

My body is not perfect by any standard.
It may not be perfect, but it’s mine.

I love me.
I accept me.
I approve of me.

I approve of this body.

Black.
Feminine.
Safe.

And mine.

Title: Black Girl Booty Shame
Date: 07.22.22

It’s now illegal to video police!!

Arizona just passed a law making it ILLEGAL for bystanders to record police when arresting someone.

If a person is within 8 feet of arrest and records the arrest on the their mobile device, they are breaking the law in Arizona and will be charged.

If George Floyd’s public execution had not been caught on camera,  I’m confident we would NEVER have know the truth.

Please check out this short video: https://fb.watch/eiYZMLCjNd/

Although it can be infuriating (it was for me!) this law is a sign of US WINNING!!

Don’t be discouraged.

We are closer than it looks, to a new America!

Watch the video and let me hear from you. Comment below!

I love you,

Dr. Venus

I said no
“Do you still love me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My love was the runway used up each time you didn’t keep your promise.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
“I know. You tried. We both did. My special needs and your need don’t fit. And that’s ok.”
“The hell it is!”

(Pain-filled Silence)

There are times I wish I were different.

A different kind of woman who doesn’t take things to heart.
Who doesn’t feel as deeply as I feel.
Who can make room for tiny inconsistencies that add up to huge uncertainties.

I wish I were a white woman right now.

Not a real flesh and bone white women.
I know my sisters work hard and go through their own brand of oppression.

I mean the fantasy white woman.
Dainty.
Care-free.
Laughter spilling from her lips like luminous pearls.

I see her running care-free on the beach, or
In a field of happy yellow daffodils, frolicking, joyous, and absent from trauma that I tend to daily.

I know it’s a fantasy.
But I hear stories…

How White Women, Asian Women, Latina Women—EVERY woman except Black Women—are more desirable because they are more “feminine.”

Feminine, in this context, translates into more forgiving.
More accepting.
More accommodating.

The Black Man who loved me wanted that sort of love. And I could not give it to him.

He was great to me.
He took care of me.
He was loyal and true.

AND the one thing I needed—emotional safety by way of consistency, communication, and consideration—was hit or miss.

He needed a woman who could give him the space, the wiggle room to do what he thought best, not what I asked or what we agreed to.

It sounds like such a petty need, to have your words match your actions and when they don’t, clean it up and put in the correction. Which he did.

But, overtime, he would become offended, feel hurt, rejected, or some kinda way and stop communicating.

Or communicate in a way that for him was protective; for me, was hurtful.

If I were the kind of woman who took things at face value instead of taking them to heart, we would have married.

But I’m not.

My PTSD gets triggered by surprises and inconsistencies.

On the streets, I learned to listen to a person’s actions, not their words, to discern if I would be safe. My need for certainty is directly tied to my nervous system. And I am accountable for my well-being.

I don’t get to make my special needs his responsibility.

I get to choose.

I love me more than I love him.
And I love him too much to try to change him into something he is not.
My need for emotional safety—something the Black Man who loved me gave me so much of—requires consistency.

That’s a lot for a person who needs space to do what he thinks is best without being required to communicate each and every time. He tried. It just wasn’t in him. And the more I talked about it, the more he felt attacked and I felt diminished.

Love turns into resentment when we hold on too long.

I didn’t want to hate him for not being able to honor my needs. Me expressing my upset landed to him like I was attacking him; tearing him down. I wasn’t AND I can see how continually bring it up, he would feel that way.

So I ended the relationship.
I have no regrets.
I do grieve the loss of the dream.

My heart hurts.
God is faithful.
So I go within.

To mend me

My prayer for Him is a woman of any race who can love Him in all the ways he needs to be loved; especially in the ways I simply did not have the capacity for.

He deserves such a love.

Healing in his love was a beautiful season of my life.

And I am grateful.