For every dream unrealized every goal unachieved, all the legacies lost, I grieve. For every celebration thwarted, every promise broken & family torn, every body left strewn and rotting, I mourn. For every heartbroken mother, father, sister, brother;…
*Strong language and content
Pitcher 2: Denial
This bitch just dove off a fuckin’ building and landed in water. And, she still breathing, under water, for like ever. Anybody that’s ever loved any fuckin’ body knows what it’s like to get so fed up with whatever bullshit is happening that you either want to jump or push they ass. Now, all you crazy ass Bey cult muthafuckas, DON’T GO JUMPING OFF BUILDINGS. Yo’ ass will not land in water. Yo’ ass will die! DON’T GO JUMPING IN DEEP WATER if you can’t swim either. Yo’ ass will not just float around underwater. Yo’ ass will die! You do not have a multi-million dollar producer, director, and film team to save yo’ ass.
Now, Beyonce’ said a bunch of deep shit that basically meant she was going crazy as fuck trying to figure out if Jay was cheating on her ass. She was denying that shit, but her Intuition wouldn’t shut up about it. And, we all been there. Ain’t no denying that shit. And, when you know, you start losing your mind trying to find clues and shit. Then you keep trying to act like nothing’s wrong, or you think it’s your fault. You start changing and shit. Beyoncé said her hair grew, I cut mine off when I thought my man was cheating and then I got weave for the first time ‘cause he ain’t like that shit. Just dumb shit.
I’m tellin’ you right now, don’t change shit about yourself for no fuckin’ body. If you think your man cheating on your ass, you probably right. That’s that Intuition bitch. And, ain’t nothin’ about you made him do it. If a bitch gon’ cheat, that’s just in ‘em to do. Now, you just gotta decide what you gonna do about it. Beyoncé made a whole fuckin’ album. But, again you ain’t got no multi-million dollar producer, director, and film team to save yo’ ass.
The words of the Somalian, Kenyan native, UK-cultivated griot, Warsan Shire, uttered from the lips of the Southern, Alabama-influenced, lineal Louisiana, Houston-raised icon Beyoncé was a blatant averment of the undeniable intertwining of African religious practices throughout the Diaspora. We see the depth of Beyoncé the artist, woman, lover, as she delves into the psyche of a woman scorned who is drowning in “Denial.” I don’t know if it is as much her story, as it is mine.
I married the father of my son when I was a child myself. He was, is a captivating orator and generous lover which led him to be a prolific father of children that do not belong to me. He was my everything. My world centered around making him more prosperous, shine brighter, be more appealing to onlookers as to incite envy. I smiled in public, spread my arms and legs with blind acquiescence at every request. I lowered myself in character and form. If there was a need, I anticipated and supplied. Being a wife is the most important job, and I was in his employ. I cloaked myself in visual perfection to still his wandering eyes to no avail.
Digesting the thought that the man that I poured my all into would ever betray me was unfathomable. But, I was aware before any tangible confirmations. Yet, lying to myself in the emptiness of the shell of our marriage was comforting. Convinced that I could change the man, I began to change myself even more. I swallowed my words when they conflicted with his. I wasted away into a shadow of myself as he towered over me standing on the mound of my cocooned ambition suffocating beneath his feet. I lost myself completely.
I looked for answers outside of myself in decorated bottles of intoxicating poison before turning to 12-week rites of passages and 12-step programs and fasts and cleanses and pouring of oil on my crown and burning sage beneath my feet. I ran in every direction away from the question of his fidelity, until I met her. His daughter, the spitting image of my son only slightly younger, was the truth I could no longer bury. And, just like that, denial was over. I lost my job and began to tread the path to find myself again.
an inspired piece by T. Anyabwelé
Until the conversation about each of the phases is complete, you’ll hear the voices of various contributors who will dissect the recently released, updated Black Woman Manifesto: “Lemonade.” This post is specifically about “Denial.” Some of the contributors have chosen to use a pseudonym. Others have chosen to submit inspired works of fiction. If any name used reflects that of someone in reality, it is only by coincidence. Read all other posts at www.blackgirlspeaks.me .