Nothing Even Matters: A Poetic Prophecy for My Little Girl

My hope is that one day my daughter will understand her innate value as a woman loved by God
 
So last week, I realized that I am a mother.
 
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I have a 2.5 year old so, of course, I’ve BEEN a mother for a while now.
 
But there’s something about having a sick child that makes that role more crystal clear than ever. My sweet K has had THE worst cold virus and sinus infection over the last week. Tending to her runny nose, rubbing vapor rub on her chest, letting her climb up in my bed and snuggle under my bosom, not getting mad when she sneezes directly in my face (Ew!), and crying tears of desperation as her fever climbed to 104.3—all of these things—showed me one thing: When it comes to my baby, nothing else matters.
 
No writing or editing deadlines matter (even when they do). No cancelation of classes I’m teaching matters (even when it does). I technically have no other place I “have” to be and nothing else I “need” to do but be with her.
 
I am mommy. She’s that valuable.
 
My hope is that one day she will understand that value deeply. And I don’t mean her value just as Tracey and William’s child. I mean her innate value as a woman loved by God. I mean, in spite of the myriad of negative images (both externally and self-perpetuated), her value as a woman of color. So since April is National Poetry Month and I began this writing thing as a poet, I want to share a poem in today’s post written specifically for all the brown mommies and baby girls in the world. Like to read it? Here it go…
 
I AM NOT/I AM
 
I am not the greatest.

Yet I am one of many whose collective greatness

has given birth to the genius of generations

and have been awarded by the Heavenly Father with the

most prestigious of honors:
Woman.
 
I am not the prettiest. 

Yet I know that I am one of many whose collective beauty
has been admired and replicated

and become the standard from which all others follow
 
Nor am I the smartest.

Yet I am sure that I am one of many whose collective intellec
t
has dumbfounded the highest of scholars.

My math has yet to be truly comprehended

and my literature makes for compelling conversation.
 
I am, quite intricately, a woman.

One whose spirit is defined and yet undefined.

A comfortable contradiction.

A collision of power and peace that

ponders the road less traveled

and still makes her own way.
 
Travel a minute on my path and your eyes

will open to the journey of us.

A road paved with misplaced inferiority and broken glass ceilings.

Impenetrable abuse and emotions held tightly but given freely.
 
Pay no mind though to the shoes I choose to wear on the journey.

Tennis shoes or run-over loafers

Low-heeled church pumps or six-inch stilettos.
Because no matter what, I remain a woman moving forward.

I have nurtured a sleeping humanity on the bosom of my might.
 
In Harlem

In Philly

In Brooklyn

I’m a Woman.
 
In Compton

In Seattle

In the 5th Ward of Houston

I’m a Woman.
 
In Louisville

On the South Side of Chicago

In South Africa

In Trinidad

I’m a Woman
 
In Salvadore de Bahia
In
London and Tokyo

In Afghanistan

I am a Woman
 
And in my grave, I’m still a woman.

Only then magnified by the light of the angels

and the sweet smile of my Creator.
 
“Well Done…”
 
So no, I’m not the strongest.

But I do know that I am one of many whose strength has

moved mountains on mustard seed faith.

Who have walked through valleys amidst the shadow of death

and rose again the next morning

to tell the story again.
 
Some say I’m not too much but

I am…
 
-TMLG
(Go ‘head and snap those fangas. Lol!)
 
Reprinted with permission from My Brown Baby. Want more?