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Poem
I'm a black woman and I cry
I'm a black woman and I cry 
You've been telling me 
all my life
that everything was going to be alright.
But I cried when I was a little girl
when I had to cut my locks 
into Shirley Temple curls.
And I cry now that I am a woman of the world.
And I can see 
it still matters if I want to be
an afro or a weave.

Who should care if I want to be a blond?
If, I want my hair to be short or long?
No matter what I do I will always be black
or to be more politically correct

African American.

I will always have to pray for my dark son
for he can be shot because of a profile 
or by a thug
no matter if his hair is nappy 
or greasy and waved up.

And even if my lover be kind and white, 
People will say he isn't the one that should be happy
but I.
They will say 
the privilege to feel our love is totally mine,
no matter if I had braids,
or had straight hair below my behind.
And if we have children, their pedigree
will be determined by the black blood 
that flows through me.
Even if their hair is yellow and curly.
For that was one law that never changed
After reconstruction or slavery days...
And all the laws that passed and said I was free
seems like a lie to me.

Because I can't even decide how to wear 
my own head of hair
without it being such a big affair
and a symbol of how much I care
to demonstrate 
that I am proud to say

I'm black and I'm beautiful.

But, that is the question to which I must answer
and tell the truth...
How do I say "Be proud!"
To the little girl that comes from my womb
if my appearance brings any doubt
about what I think my heritage
is all about.

So today I don't buy any Indian hair
And I throw my jar of perm in the trash
And I sit my pretty tender head in the chair

And when she says "Ma that cornrow’s too tight!"

I say "Child! 		
Be quiet! 	
Sit back! 

Mama ain’t got all night. "
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