"A good girl: bright, perhaps a bit of an introvert, perhaps not romantically pursued or interested in the pursuit for these reasons. Of course, these traits are likely not all she is, but when she is told that her brownness negates her goodness, she must determine how to be herself—all of herself—anyway. Tropism is the biological phenomenon that describes how she does it. In tropism, external agents determine the direction of an organism’s growth. For better or worse, it is often external agents that show a good girl of color how to grow into herself; they determine what she will look like and how she will act."
2017 has been life affirming. I haven't taken y'all on the cardiomyopathy carousel much this year because technically it's all rather new; a little up and down like the carousel horsies; a little boring as incremental change can be; and more than anything for all my say-it-anyway-you-can banner waving, ummm, I'd rather not. Besides, I am so, so Here. And other people that were in my brand of canoe don't always get to say that. So, about being Here. That good girl project has been doing big things this year!
Sexuality presents as attractiveness like “You’re cute, I’m attracted to your physical-ness.” And ultimately if biology and evolution is to be trusted, that translates into “I’d be interested in having sex with you.” It’s one way to fertilize the earth I suppose.
Women I know wear Special so heavy their backs break under it; discard it in you and there you are feeling like you’re some kind of Robinhood to the rescue knowing full well you are water seeking its own level.
...common roles illustrate how Black women, and their sexuality, have often been synonymous with deviance. And reclaiming, repackaging, and/or discarding the roles has given women agency; a control denied the Good Girl who is essentially invisible. She needs that.
She remembered holding his hand, thumbing the meaty part under his thumb. And she remembered how she hardly ever held his hand. Or smiled. She remembered how he smelled—soapy—and his minty breath. He said he brushed his teeth because he planned to kiss her. She remembered him fingering her eyebrows. And his eyes. She remembered [...]
After lunch he lays in her lap. She twists his hair while they watch game shows and soaps. He feels her up; she slaps his hand. Your head is heavy. She twists some more. They go out for a walk holding hands. His father’s neighborhood does not have the eyes of hers or his mom’s and as free as she feels here she knows the escape is not permanent. So when we gonna do this again?
A Guide to Picking Scabs She was a melancholic girl then she was a young woman with a sweet public face and private potty mouth. She felt unloved but mostly unnoticed, unsure, and determined. (To be better wasn’t her mission; to deal or die was). She spent an inordinate amount of time considering her own [...]
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