Chapter 1
I'm listening to a song written to make me envision this beautiful fragile white woman and her lover living in a glamorized early 1900s. She is weak to his masculinity and ego. They both like the idea of being controlled and controlling. He likes her flowy long hair, pale skin, and delicate frame. He dreams about her running in a field filled with flowers as her unconfined dress flows between her legs and the sun kisses the top of her head and her little nose. She is mysterious and keeps her thoughts to herself, in some cases writes them down in some art form for only herself to understand but for others to be seen as rather a talent without a story. She is desired by men and envied by women. I am drawn to this idea of a feminine, fragile and beautiful woman who cant be herself but is rather created from centuries of men perfecting her to be the woman. The woman is seen in every film and written in every book.
This frumpy man, who has taken a liking to a much younger woman, decides to use her as his muse and paints a portrait of her. This is her, the woman.
Even writing this I am struggling to identify myself to the readers and myself. I want to be a strong woman. A strong black woman. But my severe case of delusion and struggle to portray myself from my own mind is an everyday battle. To imagine me as feminine or even beautiful seems incomprehensible. Being seen s a black woman is not something that pleases me aesthetically or visually. When I’m the black woman it is impossible to be in a love story where a poor victorian lady who reads books falls for a rich man who saves her entire family from poverty, instead, il be a slave getting raped by a disgusting white man who secretly fetishizes over a black woman. When I’m the black woman my story will never be two rich men desiring to be my forever destined lover while I say " hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” because black women will never be able to live in such an oblivious state of mind. Causes are many of course and everything derives from human history of course but I don't want to give a history lesson. But don't let that sentence fool you about the importance of history and the effects it still has in our modern lives. I want to write and I want you to listen, from human to human, from soul to soul. Pure thoughts and stories. A part of my mind and soul that I don't expect to be relatable or nonrelatable, a calla lily flower in a field of roses.
