Watch Us Rise(27)
jrock liked this
wahibabeee commented: You know I’ll be coming back to this blog. This is the only relevant blog at Amsterdam Heights anyway. Who cares about photos of the basketball club or the Environmental Club? This is where it’s at!
writelikeagirl commented: Thanks! We’re not trying to put any other clubs down, but we appreciate your comments. Come back soon!
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Jasmine Gray
What It Be Like: on being a girl
It be like men telling you to smile when you’re all out of sunshine. Like your mouth being more familiar with saying yes than no. It be like hiding sometimes, wrapped in puffy coat, too-loose dress, nothing clinging or low cut. It be like wanting to be seen and not wanting to be seen all at once. Like knowing you have the right answer but letting him speak anyway. It be like second-guessing your know-how, like fact-checking your own truth. It be like older women telling you how to get a man even if they don’t have a man, even if you don’t want a man. It be like learning how to play hard-to-get, how to entice, how to be sweet honey always. It be like being told you are too sweet, too loose, too woman and not enough girl, too girl and not enough woman.
It be like knowing all the world is expecting you to be nurturer, when maybe you want to hunt. It be like a wild flame trying to burn, burn while everyone else wants to extinguish it. It be like being told it’s okay to cry, but it never be like rage unfiltered, anger expressed.
It be like trying so hard to hold everything in: emotion, brilliance, waist. Breathe in always, never let out.
It be like stomach cramps and bloated belly, like cravings and moods that change like spring days. It be like trusting the mirror when it shows you your beauty. It be like trusting your heart when it tells you who to love, who to walk away from. It be like knowing you can always start again, that you can always create and make something because you are made for birthing.
It be like meeting other women—older and younger, living and no more breath. It be like their spirits are inside you, remaking you into something better and bolder every time you say their names, read their poems, learn their legacy. It be like knowing you are what praying women had in mind when they travailed for tomorrow.
It be like knowing you are a promise, a seed.
It be like knowing that without you
planted and watered and nurtured
the world can’t go on.
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bronxbeauty commented: It really be like this! Word.
harlemgirl commented: This poem is giving me life. And I mean that literally. It gives me something to look forward to. It’s making me think about how being a girl affects me.
jeremiahbbox commented: My new favorite blog.
lizfreeman commented: The world can’t go on without us women! Yes.
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wonderworld19 commented: This part right here “fact-checking your truth.” Girl, yes.
sugarhillforever commented: Why can’t I like this a million times? So good.
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jrock commented: I hope you all do something with these poems and posts and not just let them store up online. These words need to be spoken out loud.
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Jasmine Gray
Playtime for Fat Black Girls
I
Mom wouldn’t buy me Barbies because there weren’t many black Barbies to choose from, and the ones that were painted brown had white girl features and hair, fake girl bodies. Mom made dolls instead, gave me brown cloth dolls with big brown eyes. Dolls that looked like my aunties and the women who sat at the window of Harlem brownstones. Dolls with twists and dreads, pressed hair and hair wrapped in fabric with African print. Dollies made just for me, black. But none of them were fat.
II
The only fat doll I had was a white baby doll that I got from a sidewalk sale. It was something to play with when pretending to be a mommy, something to feed and rock and lay down gently in a crib. The fatness was cute in a chubby, rosy cheeks kind of way. I knew it was okay to be a chubby baby but not a big-boned girl, a fat teen.
I knew my body was not normal.
Not even in make-believe did girls look like me.
III
I was never called on for stick ball. Maybe because I am a girl, maybe because the other kids at the park didn’t think a big kid like me could run fast. Maybe that’s how I got so good playing by myself in my journal, in my bedroom, in front of a mirror putting on shows for my teddy bears. My imagination was my playground.
IV
I pretended to be Storm and all the women who saved the day in the reruns my grandma watched—Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman. I did not pretend to be princess, in my make-believe I was queen.
V
I played make believe.
I made myself believe.
I believed what I made.
I made me.
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mslucas commented: Just so good to see this perspective, Jasmine. Thank you!
magicalme commented: So for real. This is my story. Thank you for putting words to my experience.