What the Hell is Regular Black?

“You real fine and you pretty,” the smooth words rolled past his toothpaste commercial level white teeth and thick coffee bean shade lips. Before a girlish smile could plaster itself on my face, he added, “but you ain’t like, regular Black.” “What


Transnational F**keries

At the produce markets that populated Church Avenue, if someone cut in line or pushed her while trying to squeeze past, my mother would hurl the harshest obscenity that came to mind, “Fuck!” It was in fact one of her favorites because



“African-American girls always score higher than their white peers when it comes to self-esteem,” one of my High School teachers lectured. I struggle to remember why broaching this subject was germane to our class discussion, since this statement was made by my


I have melanated skin, which helps me look younger than my age, but I also have a lot of scars on my body that seem to become more visible with time. Yet, now that I’ve moved closer to fifty, I’m not as


There’s something about a porch that speaks to my soul, love one that’s furnished like the outdoor, out front room that, in my eyes, it’s meant to be. I passed a little bungalow home with a wrap around porch one afternoon; it


Black Barbie

Daddy straddled the heap of toys that lived on the floor of our playroom in Brentwood, Long Island. Tiny plastic arms splintered out as though bidding for a chance to accompany me to Becky Carrigan’s* sleepover that night. Daddy sifted unceremoniously through

“Radical Wombs”

I’ve been dreaming. In my dreams, my sisters sit in circle formation, our legs crossed after a long day of picking okra. We laugh and cry with one another. We share secrets and indulge in nostalgia. “Remember when we spent our days