Afterdark Dirty


Hey baby shut the muthafucking door

Shit about to get dirty like a floor

Unzip ya pants, take ya dick out

Stop playing baby put it in my mouth

Shit gonna get real up in this place

Suck out the nut, let drip down my face

Keep it nasty, keep it dirty, keep it nice

Drop the pussy on the dick and squeeze tight

Ride it slow them speed up the tempo

Smack my ass and play with my nipples

Big girls don’t play with the dick

Can’t handle it? Go and get a stick

Hey baby I can give you what you need

Get off the top, and get on my knees

I love it when you thumbing my ass

Got me screaming like I’m in a plane crash

One bed, two freaks, three nuts down

All these gushy, squishy sounds

Sweat dripping all down ya sack

Pull out! Pull out! And nut on back!

Real Black, Fake Black


I used to be ashamed of my upbringing when I first began conversing with my sistas and brothas in the conscious movement.  I would remain quiet when they would speak of struggles and hardships that I never had to experience; tales of missing fathers, police sirens, gunshots, and poverty.  My heart bled for them in silence.  My tears ran freely. Thoughts of their childhood being cut often before their age reached double digits. I mourned the unburied dead that was their innocence.

I guess they though my silent anguish was for my own tragedy, one worst than they could ever imagine.  They were curious and began to ask me to share my own stories but would recoil when I told them my tears were not for me but for them.  I grew up sheltered and protected by a loving mother and father.  My extended family and my community was even more love and protection.  I was a sheltered, church girl, the youngest in my family, maybe even a little spoiled.  My childhood was wonderful.  Growing up surrounded by lush forest, green pastures, and huge front and back yards where I would play with my pets, siblings, cousins, and friends on hot summer days.  Swing sets, pools, dolls, bikes, summer vacation flights to northern and east coast cities, road trips, shopping sprees, Christmas list fulfilled….I didn’t want for anything.  But I felt ashamed.

I felt ashamed as my blackness diminished in their eyes, ashamed of my parent’s success, ashamed of the very peace that we were fighting for so that all little black boys and girls could feel as safe and protected as I did…

My mom worked her way up from assistant secretary to director, the highest position in her field, before she retired.  She also owned her own catering business for a while.  My father drew blueprints and designed houses, even internationally when I was very young, then came back home to work in the non-profit sector writing grants that enabled people to buy and keep land, and build and buy their own homes before he passed away when I was 18.  They achieved this while living less than 30 minutes away from schools that still had two proms, while sending their children to segregated schools, and a high black population ruled by white power in the Black Belt of Alabama.  But they made me feel ashamed.

I was 19 and didn’t know who Marcus Garvey was, never heard of Black Wall Street, or Seneca Village.  They gave me the same book of lies called history books that every other child in America received.  I spent my free time reading R.L. Stine and The Babysitter’s club because I didn’t know about the great African American literary period called the Harlem Renaissance until I was almost 18.  I believed at that time that respectability would make the world accept me even while I did lunch with white friends who couldn’t take me to their houses because their parents didn’t allow it; even while they plan parties and cookouts that I couldn’t attend because their families would be there.   I learned quickly in my historically white university that no matter how smart, articulate, or well-dressed and groomed I was, I could still be subjected to the same treatment that people who didn’t posses those traits do.

I started to wake up and be “conscious”.  I started to realize that my sun kissed darkness meant something more than just an organ that protected my internal structures.  I studied melanin, I returned to natural, started working with youth organizations, listening to neo-soul music,  reading about Kemet, learning about American-born black religions and creeds, pre-slavery Africa, hidden truths…  I kept my head in those books and websites. When I looked up, I was different.  I saw the world differently.  The lies, the deceit, the pure evilness of society.  People I knew didn’t understand.  I sought out these other people who seem like they had learned some of these secrets too only to have them shun me and question my blackness because of my lack of “struggle”.

What people need to understand is that everyone have different roles.  We need all different types of people in this fight.  We need people who march the streets with signs and chants, we need street soldiers to protect us, we need that college grad to help change laws and become advocates in the institutions that keep racism alive, we need speakers and writers to use their words to spread knowledge and change hearts.  No one is invalid or useless in the conscious movement.  We are all valuable and important no matter what our experiences include and no matter where we are on the journey to freedom and truth.

Black Lives Don’t Matter


I remember back in 2007 when I was working with the Alabama Department of Juvenile Justice. That was when I really understood police brutality and how it affected young, black men. I was green, hardly any street sense, but I had a passion for working with youth. I tried to be someone they could talk to but it often weighted on me heavily. I would bring work home a lot.

One day I was talking to a group of students during rec time about staying out of trouble when they got out. I suggested calling the police instead of always resulting to street justice. I thought I was teaching them but they ended up teaching me. One kid stopped me and said, “Miss A, how can you expect me to call the same police that had my face in the dirt just for walking down the sidewalk…. to come help me?”

I paused and gasp. At that point I had never personally had a bad experience with the police. The ones I knew were helpful and just did their jobs, but the tears begin to flow as they told me story after story of fear, pain, and total disregard for human life. How even as little kids they experienced police brutality doing simple things like walking home from the park or from a friend’s house. My heart broke for them.

I lied to them. Not on purpose. But I told them that when they got older and could afford to move out of those bad neighborhoods, they wouldn’t have to experience that anymore. I told them to get their education, learn their rights, etc…..bullshit respectability. As I look around today, I know that none of that works. Your educational or economic status shouldn’t determine your right to fair treatment. How you dress, how well you speak, the neighborhood you reside in, nor the color of your skin should make a difference in your rights. Everyday I get proved wrong just how those boys proved me wrong back then.

You don’t know sadness til you hear a 16 yr old black child cry about feeling worthless to the world when his life has barely started. When he thinks he will die in violence no matter what he chose to do in life. What the hell do we really tell these kids?! I don’t think I know anymore but I refuse to lie to them again…



Sometimes when I am up late at night, I cry about how divided we are, how no matter how hard we try as men; as women; as black, white, Hispanic, etc., as Christians, Muslims…. its more people out there against you than with you. Characteristics like being nice, loyal, open, friendly makes you a clearly outlined, targeted to be the world’s victim. We are living in a time when we expect to receive the worst from people. Every where I look I see hurt, wounded people with open wounds inflicted on them, not by strangers, but mostly people they held dear to their hearts. I see a nation of people suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from just gaining knowledge about the world.

As a black woman, everything about me is politicized: my hair, my womb, my weight, my skin, my choices, my voice, who I love…. I work, I fight, I speak, I live, I write so that one day some little black girl can wake up and the only worries about her hair is how she chose to style it; her womb, preventing cancer; her weight, being healthy; her skin, stopping pimples, her choices, making those that are best for her; her voice, being heard; and her love, being reciprocated.

As a human, I don’t want to have to change or reduce who I am to please the masses and I don’t want anyone else to either. Within the light source that I cast into the darkness, I create a safe space for openness, love, trust, vulnerability, emotions, sadness….

Less Than, Greater Than


When black men save and rescue black women, nobody hears about it.  The world only shows his heroism for white ones.  No wonder we don’t feel protected and valued by our own, especially when no hero dads were ever in the home.

Nothing has changed since the days of slavery with the black woman and black man both victims of the system but the man either too broken or too powerless to do anything about it or even care.  Yet the black women being strength to the nation, goddesses in their own right as they deal in their maternal, ever questioned femininity, and superhuman strength to do what her man cannot.  She wails, she weeps, and she gets loud, angry, impassioned, and brave.  She has to because not doing so will leave her weak, broken, and submissive to powers that could kill her and her family.  Her strength gained and earned through hurt, pain, and growth used as a lash to beat her back by the very men and boys she tried to protect.

White fleshed heaped on her back by the pounds. White flesh praised while hers is denied.  Measured on a scale, the more whiteness she possess, the more the scales tip in her favor.  Psychologically denied to be a black woman, with black skin, black hair, black voice, black love, black passion, and be happy about it.  Permed, processed, dreaded, braided, afro’d and free, her hair is controversy at all times to some population of people, even in the state that it grew from her scalp places a political weight on her that no other woman in the world has to endure.

Funny that her black flesh used to have such economical value, yet so little respect, so little regard….  Her curves weight more than her mind, her spirit, and her love, yet viewed richly in sex and visual candy.  Her men, her black brothas heaping blame and shame on her for her hesitation to submit, attempts to live in a visual world seeped in European beauty standards in a world that judge women nearly exclusively by their looks, her struggle to raise children that men have little to nothing to do with, her desire to love a man yet has never been loved only lusted by men….so many things that are beyond her control, things used as reasons why white flesh is more valuable than her black flesh.  He is blind to how his words are receipts declaring his own damage and victimhood to a system feeding him the fallacy.  His weakness and brokeness has caused him to use misguided masculinity full of pain expressed as anger and resentment to the black woman; causing him to attack the black woman instead of the system that made them both this way.   His sexualized body viewed as strength while he looks in disgust as the black woman’s sexualized body.  Not understanding that he unconsciously values white and foreign flesh as more valuable and treats it as such.