The State of the Black Woman

On account of my Haunted Vagina,
I pretty much quit writing poetry and spoken word pieces
My long time friend (elementary school ya'll) needed help with her talent for the
Miss Black & Gold pageant taking place at the University of Kansas
so I told that ghost to get the hell out!
This is the result...

"The State of Black Women"

Phenomenal
Phenomenal like Maya Angelou phenomenal
I'm Phenomenal

Phenomenal like I'm one of those rare women who recognize that I have generations of ingenuity, persistence, determination, and the resilience of those who've gone before me - running through my veins

I'm Phenomenal

I respect that women have already paved the way and all I have to do is walk straight.
I have sense enough not to deviate.

I'm trying to tell ya'll - I'm Phenomenal

Phenomenal women set the standard

We are the standard
We over achieve the standard
We make the mold of the well-rounded woman then break it so that we ourselves can become the upgraded version

We are the prototype of the desired friend, sister, wife, confidant, scholar, athlete, corporate woman, entrepreneur, entertainer, and leader

We are second to none
Surpassed by none
And by the time anyone comes remotely close to outshining us...
Their bulb has already gone dim

--------

But where are we?

I mean,
I'm phenomenal and I know you see me
But ME aint WE
Where have all the phenomenal women gone?

Black women like to complain about Black men not being men

Let's see...
Jail
Gay
Down Low
Dead before twenty-three

Sounds like an endangered species to me

Do these over analyzing women ever take the time to evaluate their own diminished numbers of phenomenalisim?

I think not.

They strip themselves of the title every time they drop it like it's hot to a jam that refers to them as...Well...I don't need to go there
My message is typical.

But if it's so typical, why is it that there has only been one nationally publicized stand?

It took place when Spelman banned Nelly

Did you even hear about it?
Did you even care?

(We Failed)

By not recognizing our beauty and self-worth, we've allowed outside sources to define it for us.
Instead of building each other up - we knock each other down
Instead of getting love from our sistahs - We choose to self-destruct as we seek to fill voids

We become groupies or waste deep in debt as we search for solace in material possessions.
We ditch our pinstripe suits for outfits so skimpy we make hairless chihuahuas look furry.
All in an attempt to attract a man to fill the void of an absent father.

We've got to do better

We let 'em Raw Dawg and end up with babies.
"It's No Fun If His Friend Can't Have Sum!"
So we end up on Maury
Got five men on stage, convinced the sixth just gotta be it
"Yea, I know he's it."

Baby got the same curve in the pinky toe
And if you squint your right eye
And stand on one leg
And lean to the left
I'd be DAMMED if they don't look the same!

I'm sayin...

Where have all the phenomenal women gone?
Where are the women of the 90s who were so independent, they refused to support a man who couldn't do the same?
When did women stop learning how to be women and think just cuz they got that good good and can throw down on a box of Hamburger Helper, they deserve to be wifey?

What qualified these underqualiied women to insist there are no good men worthy of marrying, when they didn't check themselves in the mirror?

What are you bringing to the table?

What happened to class and elegance?

When did we become so jaded that issues like domestic violence failed to evoke emotions and a deep desire within us to change?

It's not the Black man that's endangered.
It's us.
This is the State of the Black Woman
This is what we have come to be
As for me...
I'm phenomenal
Phenomenally.

-Jasmine D. Taylor (Jaz)
12/5/08

For my sis Brittany Ersery. Love you girl!

Miss Brittany Ersery

My Haunted Vagina

I know this is my 3rd post of they day, but I'm feeling inspired to share my oh so very off the wall thoughts with the world.

Being the "Reality TV Junkie" I am, I decided to catch up on Vh1's The Cho Show. In this episode, a psychic informs her that her va-jay-jay is haunted. Apparently, the haunted vagina causes writers block. It made me wonder if my very own vagina was hosting it's very own phantom as well. Though my creative juices are pumping out blog entries non stop, I haven't been able to write a quality poem in years!

Before my vagina became allegedly haunted, I spoke in rhymes. Even my thoughts rhymed. I could pump out some deep Maya Angelou type shit in less than 5 minutes. Now I'm stuck. Totally stuck. Years ago I vowed to limit my selection of "Scorned Bitch" poems. I don't care about other people's heartbreaks so why should I write about my own? Poems declaring my undying love for a man are plain ol dumb seeing as I haven't managed to stay in a relationship longer than 11 months. I'll leave the "Strong Black Woman/Race" poems to those who choose to perform with a set of bongos on stage. Instead, I wrote about moments of self-discovery. Those days are over.

My view of the world has completely changed.

With age, my thoughts have turned out to be more radical & to the point. Rhyming doesn't come as easily to me anymore. I'd rather spend the time being blunt and just saying whatever the hell I gotta say. Maybe advanced English classes in high school wore me out on analyzing a writer's words. I got tired of people always looking for the deeper meaning in everything artistic. If a painter draws a black dot in the middle of a blank canvas, people are quick to become analytical.

"Maybe the dot represents the Black struggle in a White world."
"Maybe the blackness of the dot symbolizes that an individual person is stronger than a world of people who merely blend into the background."
"Perhaps the rounded edges of the dot are a statement against the sharp edges of the canvas it occupies."

Hell, did anybody take the time to think the famous artist realized that he/she could paint any random thing and idiots would analyze it, therefore driving it's cost up. Mo' Money, Mo' Money, Mo' Money! Rich people buy anything.

I say thank you to the ghost in my vagina. Thank you for blocking the poetry avenue. Thanks to you, I don't have to worry about people overanalyzing my work for years to come. I know you must have been an off the chain old woman who was to old to give a damn about what people thought. I embrace you, and pray that I will be the same when I become elderly.

I dedicate this blog
(well at least for the month of October 2008)
to the grouchy - outspoken - "I don't give a damn" - old woman's ghost
Hauting my Vagina.
Thank You.