Dear Queen
Dear Queen:
"Protect me."
"Honor me."
"Love me."
The asks from you, our sisters are deceptively simple; yet executing those asks, for too many brothers, is apparently too hard. I should know. It's been hard for me, as much as I'd like to lie and say it wasn't.
Showing care shouldn't be complicated - especially when those same women shower me with examples of the care I can't seem to reciprocate.
This isn't to say I don't know the worth of Black women.
Oh, I do.
I love your brutal honesty that, almost always, is accompanied by an offer to help; a wisdom that borders on clairvoyance; an almost obsessive desire for self-improvement; endless empathy for the disenfranchised.
I appreciate your walk, emboldened with confidence culled from the spirits of a thousand ancestors, all sashaying in unison with your stride; selflessness that borders emotional immolation, yet ultimately yields communion with the divine; loyalty that extends beyond reason; so far beyond reason, in fact, that it breaks rules of time and space, creating the confidence to validate your loyalty in the first place.
I value your ability to laugh at the inane, the insane, and the immature; a supernatural focus on setting, measuring, attaining and celebrating goals; multitasking skills that allow for so many very different things (child-rearing, jobs, weekend side hustles, brunches with the girls) to be done at the same time, well.
I appreciate your style - all of your styles, from the bourgie to the round the way to everything in between - that are emulated but never fully duplicated.
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I appreciate the intentional way you approach life. Always thought-out. Always planned.
Always true.
So yes, I know what I love well. And I know so much - too much - of what I love is centered around enduring and overcoming the obstacles I place in your way.
I struggle with expressing my love for Black women, then, because the things I appreciate too often come from acceptance and forgiveness of my shortcomings: patience because I was lost; kindness because I needed healing; strength when I was not enough.
My entire concept of appreciation, then, is rooted in selfishness. The fact that Black women know this and still choose to love me despite me is a point of appreciation, sure, but also a point of guilt.
I have not protected you when the protection did not include me. I did not honor you when they could not hear my voice. I only loved you to the extent I received that love from you two times over.
I have to do better. I must do better. I will do better. And the first step in doing better is admitting that I was not doing enough to begin with.
So, for the Black women who say, "I love you Black man," but don't hear it back. For the Black women hurting for Ahmaud and George but feel like Breonna was forgotten. For the Black women who work under Amy Coopers but don't have the luxury of videotaping her, I love you. I always have. I always will.
And I will work on myself so I can finally show you better than I can tell you.
Dear Queen is a series dedicated to letters from women and men written for themselves and other women. Have a "Dear Queen" letter? We want to read it! E-mail your letters to submissions@xonecole.com. Subject: 'Dear Queen'
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I see you, young Black girl; starting businesses, advancing your education, traveling the world… I'm so proud of you. I'm only 33, but as an older Black girl, I couldn't be more pleased with how my younger peers are taking matters into their own hands and creating their happiness.
You're on the way up, on a trajectory towards success. So that's why I felt it necessary to tell you… beware of Black men.
Now as you read this, understand two things: A.) I know advice from older generations goes in one ear and out the other because you feel they just "don't get it". Yes, the last time I was single, Facebook didn't exist; but I am still only 33, and I do get it. B.) You've been told to "buy Black".
Black men are the sexiest, strongest, and most intelligent men on the planet. However, that statement should be revised to say "some" Black men. Unfortunately, there are too many who despise your success, are insecure, and are battling mental health issues and family drama… Babygirl, some of them just aren't on your level.
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For those that aren't:
Don't date them. Don't try to save them. And most importantly, don't marry them, because I did.
I was just like you. I was a director at 20 and started my own marketing company at 21. I put myself through college while working full-time. At one point, a family friend noticed my writing talent, even inviting me to New York for an informational interview at his company. The family friend was Len Burnett Jr., CEO of Uptown Media Group, a company that produced magazines like Vibe, Vixen, and Uptown Magazine.
The day before my informational interview, my boyfriend at the time was hospitalized for having a seizure. I was terrified of losing him and leaving his side. I called "Uncle Len" and told him I couldn't come up to New York because I needed to remain at my boyfriend's hospital bedside.
That was a pivotal moment in my professional career. I never got the opportunity to reschedule the meeting, and haven't heard from "Uncle Len" since that day. I don't blame Len. I don't even blame my boyfriend. I didn't deserve another opportunity. I blame myself for excusing the warning signs. I knew my "boyfriend" wasn't epileptic, he had a drinking problem; one I continued to hide from friends and family. Even when I built up the courage to leave him because of it right before our wedding, he begged me to reconsider and marry him anyway, saying he'd change.
Well, ten years, two kids and a divorce with no child support later, he didn't.
Eventually, I did leave him, and as my friends now lovingly put it, "dropped the dead weight". But in some ways, although I'm now a bestselling author, speaker, and marketing strategist, the damage has been done. Like I said, this isn't true for ALL Black men, and I'm having trouble currently letting the love of a good Black man enter my spirit. Plus, I can't help but think back to the moment I chose a man over my career—a life as a writer in New York City.
I mainly reflect on these moments when I see my best friend moving from promotion to promotion as a record label executive in New York City. Since we were young, she never allowed men to stop her from getting the paper, and I admire her for that. In fact, when my 8-year-old daughter visits "Ms. Tee" in New York City, she gushes about how she dreams of her life in the Big Apple, not mine.
I recently had lunch with another Black author in her 40s who told me about a similar story, when she derailed her career in the military for her husband because he was so bold to vocally despise her success. She retreated into herself and dulled her shine like me, so she could be his wife and cater to his expectations of what a wife should be. She also shared how she warned one of her teenage son's girlfriends (who was an aspiring lawyer) not to "come down to his level" because he didn't want her to travel the world before law school.
With concern in her eyes, she told me, "I wish we would stop teaching our young girls to believe in the fairy tale of marriage." But in reality, who's showing our Black girls what the "fairy tale" looks like after the commitment has been made.
I felt compelled to tell you my story, babygirl because I think I'm old enough to have learned the lesson but young enough that you'll heed my advice. My career is still on the trajectory, and though I came down five levels for a husband, I managed to find my way back up.
Sweetheart, I love you so much, and please do reach out to me on social media whenever you need to. Just, heed my warning. Remember, God gave you the greatest gift in the world when He made you, a Black woman; He made you powerful, influential, and resilient.
Don't waste those talents on a Black man who's no good for you, or worse, recovering from the damage a Black man has done to you.
Featured image by Shutterstock.
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Your birth altered the course of my life and altered the course of my reality. Your birth placed me in a position to have to fight the greatest battle of all time (well in my mind); it placed me in a position to RISE up, rise up out of all the woes condemned for a teenage mother and rise up out of all the woes condemned for a child of a teenage mother.
Your birth was revolutionary, it changed my life, which universally, has and will continue to change the lives of many.
I remember living in the "projects" (as they call them, we call them "pyramids") in Irvington, New Jersey with no food to eat. All I had was spaghetti noodles and sauce, and even the sauce we were running out of. I calculated my money and I had enough to get back and forth to work, but not enough for the both of us to eat, so I didn't. I didn't eat for three days so you could. I went to work and drank coffee to keep me going, I added half a cup of creamer and eight packs of sugar to make it filling. Gross, right? I know. On the last day of the three, I picked you up from work, you were sick and threw up on the bus.
The author pictured with her daughterCourtesy of Dr. Malachi
Hungered, and frustrated, I said, "Oh nooo Sareen, maaaan come on." Another passenger said to me, "It's not her fault," and I responded, "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry, I'm just exhausted." By that time, we were already on our fourth bus, one hour into our two-hour journey home. When we got home, I had nothing to feed you that would soothe your aching belly, all I had was those spaghetti noodles and sauce. So, I boiled water, boiled the noodles and put a hell of a lot of spices in it and called it soup. You ate it and you felt better. I was still hungry, but I didn't care, all that mattered was you felt better. On this very day, I said NO MORE.
Teenage mother or not, I refused to allow my child to experience these circumstances.
I refused to allow you to live in the "projects", a home filled with roaches, where bloods were tagging up the building, and drug transactions were taking place in the stairwells.
I refused to allow you to live in a neighborhood where victims of the crack epidemic roamed freely in the streets, looking for their next hit, pipe in hand. I refused to allow YOU to become another statistic, a "fatherless", "born to a teenage mother", raised in the "ghetto" (as they call it, others call it "home") statistic.
On this day, I became a warrior, a fighter, I became sister Betty Shabazz. I became Queen of Sheba. I became Oshun's daughter. I became courage, strength, fortitude, destiny. I became the best version of your mother I could possibly be. I dropped to my knees in plight and rose to my feet in strength and I began to fight!
I fought EVERY SINGLE destructive thing that would get in my path. I balled up my fist, I stuck out my chest, and I fought.
I fought as you watched. You watched me rise. You watched me scream out when I felt like I would break and could no longer endure. You watched me cry out when I had a broken heart, you watched me in fury, you watched me in rage, you watched me roar like a lioness in the jungle watching over her cub. You watched me come up against oppressors, you watched me in elation, you watched me praise. You watched me rise. You watched me become a Social Psychologist (of all things), the President and Chairman of Determined to Obtain Pure Excellence youth development program, an author, and a woman of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Innnnnnncorporated. You watched. You watched me win the war, the battle I fought with all my strength so that you could win.
We won.
Lord God, I still have no idea what that rise looked like from your eyes and still, I may be too sensitive to hear it, to hear your truth. But in my sensitivity, I will never shield you from telling it, as I've always taught you to speak your mind and to SPEAK YOUR TRUTH.
The author's newly graduated daughterCourtesy of Dr. Malachi
This morning, I woke up and realized that I can finally put my weapons down, that the battle is over and I no longer have to fight for you to live.
Graduating from high school with a 4.1 weighted GPA, I no longer have to fight. Graduating from high school with approximately $1,000,000 in scholarship offers, I no longer have to fight. Attending a top performing arts school in the fall, I no longer have to fight. Selected to speak at Kenwood Academy's high school graduation, I no longer have to fight. The war is won man, it's over! Statistically, we were slated to fell, yet, we won! We fucking won! We rose above our circumstances, no we soared above our circumstances.
Battle scars, bruises to our egos, bruises to our spirit, bruises to our hearts, bruises to our soul, bruises that will heal and fade in time, bruised but victorious -- we are victorious!
Now that we've won, I've taken off my armor, my shield is down and I can be vulnerable once again. Vulnerable and soft; a feminine-energy-that-can-heal-a-nation kind of soft. The kindest, most loving, most giving version of myself that I can be for you, your sister, the world and most importantly for me. However, this does not mean I will ever stop fighting for you; I will tear up the concrete from the road with my bare hands should something happen to you. It sounds impossible, but I am certain I possess this kind of strength. For because of you, I know where the strength of a mother lies. I know where my strength lies.
The chains are broken. We broke them. Together, united as mother and daughter, in a single solitary queendom, we broke them. The chains are broken.
Be Blessed my Daughter,
Mom
Dr. Niama T. Malachi is a Social Psychologist, Author, and President and Chairman of D.O.P.E., Inc. (Determined to Obtain Pure Excellence).
Featured image courtesy of Dr. Malachi
I've come across men whose only ties with love are spelling it correctly. They knew nothing about passion because their emotions knew nothing beyond the surface. I've come across jobs that didn't even require my mind, let alone my heart. They only required that I show up on time and be the placeholder who did everything the boss felt was beneath him/her.
Being a woman driven by passion, it is important that I only tend to things that will bring that passion out of me. It is also important that I don't let anything or anyone make me feel bad for having a fire burning inside of me.
Here's an open letter to all of the women who try to hide that fire in fear of what others may think:
Dear Queen:
Be yourself and be yourself without an apology to follow.
Be who you were born to be unapologetically.
Instead of feeling like it's a curse, know that it's a blessing that you're able to use your heart time and time again.
Don't be ashamed for wearing your heart on your sleeve.
Don't feel weak for not being able to do others how they've done you.
That's strength, not a weakness.
I pray that you don't water yourself down to allow others to simply float in your presence.
I pray that you don't partake in anything that doesn't require or even want all of you.
Because all of you is all you know.
All of you is all you know how to give.
Demand that they take everything that comes with you or leave you where you stand.
You're not crazy.
Not for loving hard and not for chasing everything you've ever dreamed of.
You're passionate.
And if you've ever felt bad about that, forgive yourself.
If someone was able to convince you that you're "too much," forgive yourself.
Unlearn the notion that only part of you is good enough.
Always remember that the world needs you.
Passion has the ability to heal and whether you know it or not, your passion has healed someone's wounds.
Your passion has given someone courage to keep fighting.
Your passion has changed the world in one way or another.
Your passion has kept everything from a person to a company above water.
Dear Queen, the women who's on the verge of putting out her fire, I pray that you choose more fuel instead.
Dear Queen is a series dedicated to letters from women written for themselves and other women. Have a “Dear Queen" letter? We want to read it! E-mail your letters to editor@xonecole.com. Subject: 'Dear Queen'
Featured image by Getty Images
