from “This is For the Women”
This is for the women who read the funnies first
to get ready for the bad news.
For the women who ride motorcycles
because they don’t like to close their legs if they don’t have to.
For the women who don’t know more than six square blocks
of they neighborhood they grew up in,
who still wish the had married their first boyfriend.
He wasn’t Zorro, but he wasn’t Bozo either.
And he knew how to fold laundry.
For the women who stopped going to church because the host was stale
and they didn’t like where the money was going
and Africa doesn’t need missionaries it needs economic justice.
This is for the women who don’t know exactly what that means
but they feel it anyway.
This is for the women who watch Oprah and feel worthless
when she says “I’m a millionaire, because I decided to be a millionaire.”
For the women who call her bluff and think, “Right,
I could’ve been a millionaire. Junkie, millionaire, Junkie, millionaire.
I chose junkie.”
Fuck you, Oprah!
If you’re free on Saturday night I still won’t let you watch my kids.
The Sexy Part of the Bible
As a black woman in a white supremacist world, I can’t honestly claim that I’ve suffered any more prejudice and mistreatment from white men than I have from my own black men. Both groups seem to live bu the white man’s standards, so they both hate, degrade, exploit, and humiliate black women, fail to even acknowledge our presence. Yet when it comes to race loyalty, I always took the side of the black man–not becaues he was morally superior to the white man, but because he’s the one I give birth to, the one my womb produces.
In Africa we talk a lot about the Great White Devil, the innate evilness of the white race, but the real truth, Eternity, is that the white man and the black man are probably the same man–the world is just ruled and trampled upon by the one who got to the gun first. And unforunately, the one with the spear has been struggling at the foot of the one who got to the gun first ever since–but they’re the same man, capable of the same genius, the same goodwil, and the same inhumanity.
Neither is superior to the other.
They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.
They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.
They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
but I like the compliment.
Providing a quality service
If I was to make my living as a madam, I could not be concerned with the rightness or wrongness of prostitution, considered either from a moral or criminological standpoint. I had to look at it simply as a part of life which exists today as it existed yesterday, and which, unless there occur changes more profound than can at present be visualized, will exist tomorrow. The operation of any business is contingent on the law of supply and deman, and if there were no customers, there certainly would be no whorehouses. Prostution exists because men will pay for sexual gratification, and whatever men are willing to pay for, someone will provide.
I had found that being cynical and half-hearted about my profession had worked out to the disadvantage both of my customers and myself. But if I could think of myself as fulfilling a need, as one in a long line which stretched back to the beginning of civilization, then, no matter what stigma attached to my calling, at least I was not “antisocial.” I had a job to do, and I could find satisfaction in doing it the very best way I knew how.
"I think being a woman is like being Irish… Everyone says you’re important and nice, but you take second place all the time."
— Iris Murdoch
As Good As It Gets
- Woman: How do you write women so well?
- Melvin: I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.