Angry Black Queen

Welcome to the Secret Thoughts of Reason…


I was at subway the other day and I saw a black man waiting in line to place his order, and my first thought was: where are these subway workers? They need to hurry up and come serve my black man. No, I did not know this man, I had never seen him before, but he was still a black man…my black man. No later than a few seconds later something happened inside of me that I cannot explain. My thought changed from this is my black man and they need to hurry up and serve him…to…you know what, this isn’t my black man, it’s probably some white woman’s black man. I don’t care if they hurry up or not. Keep his ass waiting…

I know what you’re thinking…well that escalated quickly.

And it did.

I’m not sure why I felt like that, but afterwards when I really started to think about it, I realized why, but we’ll get to that later…

The reason that feeling was such a shock to me was because I was exactly the opposite of that woman. I have always been a woman who loved her black men. And I don’t even know if I can explain it to you, but there is something about a black man that no other race has. Maybe I’m biased but that’s always been my truth. No one taught it to me, I just always knew…that was my truth. A black man’s essence cannot be explained, it cannot be drawn in a picture, or written in words in a book. The only way I can describe it to you is to say, when I see my black men my soul is at peace. My entire being is at a place of rest because I know he is mine and I am his. Because I know the struggles he has had to endure and STILL has to endure on a daily basis. Because I see every tear that has fallen from his face, even when he has never shown them to anyone. Because I see the scars that are permanently engraved not only on his body, but in his heart and his mind. Because we are one.



I could go on…but I won’t. The point is I have always been a “ride or die”, I have your back and your front type of woman. The woman who saw every black man as her husband, her brother, her father, her son. I have always been that way…until now…

Now I don’t know what I am…

I don’t know who I am with regards to my black men…


Now when I look at my black man all I see is conformity and betrayal. He no longer wants to be the black man his mama raised him to be, but the black man who turns his back on the ones who were always here from the beginning and who will be here in the end…black women.

But will we still be there…in the end…



Because there will be an end. There will be a time when all you have is us. When all you can depend on is us. When all you can call on, is us. Why? Because no one can be loyal to you the way a black woman is loyal to you. Why? Because no one understands you like we understand you. No one. Because only we have been through the valleys you have been through. Only we have drowned in the same oceans that you have been drowned in. Because only we have been hung in trees beside you…


Let me step a little outside of my feelings so I can write this….give me a moment…


The black men that I have loved. That I have sacrificed for. The men whom I have pledged my alliance to, below only God. The men whose diapers I have changed. Whose hair I have combed. The black men who I have put my life on hold to build up and encourage. The ones whom I have been a stepping  stool so that you could be lifted up, and reach the things that you could not have reached otherwise.

You black men turn around, once you have reached the top and you look down on your footstool and spit on her. You tell her she must be lighter in order to be beautiful. You tell her she must have hair that sweeps her butt to be counted. You tell her, her eyes must be the color of the ocean in order to be worth gazing into. Or you tell her that her butt must be as big as a globe and her breast like watermelons…BUT her waist small. That she must wear extensions to look more like them so that you may see her…your stepping stool.

I know that many of you have never actually uttered those words…but you did much worse…you’ve lived these words.

Now I am not talking about those black men who only grew up around white or mixed people and so they ended up with them. I’m not talking about black men who just fell in love and did not see color. I encourage people to not see color and just see people…see love.  I will repeat myself again: I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT ALL BLACK MEN WHO DATE OUTSIDE OF THEIR RACE. I am ONLY talking to the ones who refuse to even look at a woman because she is too dark or her hair too coarse.

I’m talking about the black men who say things like: I only talk to white girls…and there’s no logical reasons behind it other than you wanna show the white man that you can now have his women and not be hung….whether you realize this unconscious declaration or not. I’m talking about the black men who say I only date light skin girls with curly hair as if beauty is defined by one shape or color.

What does your mother look like ignorant, ungrateful black man?

What does your sister look like?

Your aunt?

Your grandmother?

The women who have surrounded you and loved you and cared for you like no other woman can or would.

Do these women all have light skin? Do they have blue or green eyes? Do they have long straight or curly hair? Are they white?


Because I have noticed it’s the black men whose mothers ARE dark skinned and coarse haired who always scream from the roof tops…I want a woman who doesn’t look like you!

What are you running from? Your mother? Yourself?

You don’t want your children to look like your mother or your sister…because they aren’t beautiful……enough?

So from me thinking about these things a few days ago, I came to the conclusion that I am done with black men. I am done being there for you. I am done having your back. I am done fighting for you and searching for you. I am done being your stepping stool. I hope the white or mixed woman you love and adore so much will be willing to be your footstool so you can reach the top…I really doubt it though.

And for those of you who may say, well we never asked you to do any of that. No, you didn’t. But it was our job. As black women. To hold you up, to build you up. A job that we loved and cherished. A job we were pleased to do. Because you were ours and we were yours.

Anyway, that’s where I was…a few days ago.

Then I saw some things and heard some things that made me feel like maybe there was still hope for my black men. So while I am still very irate. Still betrayed. Still hurt. Still literally crying. I am choosing to believe in you. In us.

Reason - Egyptian Queen



But I won’t believe forever…

4 thoughts on “Angry Black Queen

  1. Beautifully expressed. I believe there is some truth in this. At one point in my life, I too was angry with the black men who don’t recognise or even know who they are. The ones who do not honour their women and indeed treat them like a footstool. My prayers go out to them.

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