White men want to date me now that I am a Senior

I guess they have matured enough to face their idle curiosities

We are baby boomers and approaching the last decades of our lives

If they don’t get to know me know me now…when?

They tell me they love the “blackness” of my skin

But I can’t help it, I am querulous;

are these men making amends?

possibly healing subconscious wounds?

But they say my color is appealing,

It is smooth to the touch and it has fewer wrinkles,

They say our hues are warmer;

Perhaps I am warmer, perhaps it is me?

These White men marvel at my suppleness,

the rich spectrums of browns sported by my people

I am puzzled by this sudden need to experience me,

the exterior of me.

when I have spent so much time working on the Soul of me

…my Oneness

thrive to be seen as a gift, a healer, and an artist

I am a child of God, boundless and free…am I still invisible?

Trust me, denial is not my gig, nor am I color blind,

I have evolved into a woman who sees “People”

and not the status assigned by this culture of thieves

I grew tired of redefining myself

based on the whims of the entitled

When I was little girl I was “Colored” and they called my brother “Boy”

As a teen, I was “Negro” and my privileges grew exponentially

Later we were labeled “Afro-Americans”

defined by the unmistakable glory of our hair…mockingly?

My curls and kinks gave rise to a crown of defiance.

My hair became the symbol for “Black Power”

“Power to the People”

We backed up Style with intellect, words and intents

One by one we began wearing Afros…a hair-do?

this evolution…our hair became a unifying symbol

I walked a little taller and actually became more poised

This crown gave the voiceless a loud and unmistakable roar…see me now?

Today I am ”Black” by choice…I choose to apply with this label and no other

I am too tired to answer the call of “African-American”

I am too weary to correct the well-intended person after every misnomer

In the silence of my bedroom, I dream of a time when I am transparent enough;

when the men I meet desire me,

and not just the “blackness” of my skin

Love elephant and want to go steady?

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Editorial Assistant: Pamela Mooman/Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Flickr