The moment I was born; a white man or woman slapped me on my ass and I cried for the first time as a little black baby. As a black adult woman, I’m trying to figure out WHY they seemed that necessary instead of doing some other kind of method to make sure I was alive.
As I became a little black girl, I realized that life was different for me as well as all the other little black boys and girls around me. That too made me cry. I cried to see us as beautiful as we are to be hurt, beaten, abused, mistreated, raped and molested. I cried when I would see my beautiful black people cry due to lack of money to pay bills, stress due to a lack of jobs for “us”, I cried to see my daddy and mama not together, I cried when my mama hated me because I loved my father. I cried when I got treated like an outcast in my family, talked down too and laughed at. I didn’t even know why it was happening. Yet, I cried.
I cried when I seen my mom smoking dope for the very first time. I cried when I asked her about it and she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I cried when I seen her go from healthy to dope fien skinny. I cried when me and my sisters were separated and I was pregnant and homeless when my mom went to prison for five years. I also cried when she came home healthy and clean again. But I still cried even harder because I still didn’t feel any love from her. And here I was holding all this pain and resentment as a teenage mother raising a son.
I cried when the male who helped me create my beautiful son walked out on me at three months and then denied my son only to claim him three years later after the courts demanded him to take a blood test.
I cried because he insinuated i was a whore when in fact I wasn’t. But I had been raped and molested. But, no one knew because I was afraid to tell. I cried after the rape because I was wounded, hurt and alone internally. I cried day after day because I didn’t feel like I could tell anyone. When I did; no one consoled me, no one comforted me and the men who did it I see from time to time.
I cried because it made me mean, I put walls up, I never trusted anyone, I was closed off, I told myself to be strong, never let anyone get close and at the first sign of pain; RUN! I cried myself to sleep many nights because all I ever wanted was love. I wanted to be loved and believe it or not; I had a lot of love to give!
I cried because I was sad on the inside and smiling on the outside. I had mastered how to mask my pain. I cried every time he beat me, called me out my name, maced me, kicked me down the stairs, pulled my hair, bit me, cheated on me and made me feel like I was never good enough. It didn’t hurt enough to make me leave because fear of being alone settled in and made my soul a home. And again, I cried.
I cried every time a relationship didn’t work out because I needed that comfort of having someone to come home too, lay next too and wake up too even if it was unhealthy and toxic. Because toxic had become my normal.
I cried when a pastor threatened my life because he was sleeping with the women in the church and I found out and I wouldn’t support it. I cried when he had his church members threaten to fight me because of it. I cried when he slandered my name to cover his mess and I cried even harder because it seemed his influence, position, title and money protected him in the pulpit. I hated the church but, I still loved God. I went into a deep depression. And until this day, he’s still preaching but, I still trust God. I no longer cry because of that; I pray. I feel bad for him because soon he will answer to God.
I cried when I was homeless and hungry. I cried when I lost my car. I cried more sleeping in my car with my son. I cried every time I had to steal, strip in the club, rob Peter to pay Paul just to make ends meet.
I can go on and on and on. But, I’m tired of crying and I’m ready to live. I’m ready to cry tears of joy! This black woman’s cry will be of joy, happiness, freedom, success, accomplishment and smashing my goals!
I will; even if I have to do it alone, afraid, no support or pats on the back. I don’t think no one will ever understand a black woman’s cry unless you are a BLACK WOMAN who has CRIED!
Stayed tuned for the book.
Kizzy B.🥰
I’m Pretty On Purpose 