It Is Meant For Her, And Always Was

FEATURED AUTHOR: Lyrica Fils-Aime

An Ode to

“Black Women Were Not Meant to Shovel Snow”

– A fabulous line from Deeshaw Phillip’s short story “Snowfall”

in The Secret Lives of Church Ladies

It is said that Black women were meant to bask in a not-too-hot sun, whiskey, kombucha mocktail, or hot toddy in hand, waving a gold bracelet adorned wrist – if that is what she likes, laughing with the homies on a cool fall day or a bright summer day- whichever she prefers.

Hair freshly done— or not, because maybe she likes her locs a little fuzzy and not too tight on her head. And if she wants it all perfect and tight, then cool, but no matter the desire, her curls, her locs, her braids, are shining in that just-right sun, skin glistening, laughter loud, luscious and oh so large.

Black women were not meant to eat frogs, snails or fish eggs, unless they want to, and then in that case, they are liberated to ‘have at it.’

But they were not meant for it, which is to say, they are perfectly phenomenal without any of those items wrangling around in their mouths. They were meant to have gold grillz, which

they pop in and out around their pretty and detailed drink (or their rugged and biting drink, if that is the inclination). They were meant to adorn their bodies with the most beautiful and precious colors and things and zings and tings, unless of course they feel more comfortable in a pair of sweats, and in that case, those sweats are incredible.

Black women were not meant to compare skin colors– no paper bag test, no jealousy, no competition, no stereotypes. They were meant to love and lift and care for each other, especially if the world was going to be so tough and unpredictable.

They weren’t meant to do dumb shit like look behind the baby’s ears or use bleaching creams or scrub their skin extra hard. They were meant to sit in glorious rooms that brought out the beautiful shades of the lightest brown skins to the darkest blacks, like the earth’s interior layers or a credenza’s many shades of umber- dark umber, raw umber, red-umber, tinted-umber, mahogany-umber, chestnut, you get it. And, simply, respected in their skin.

They were meant to just be.

Black women were not meant to bear the burdens. Of the household. Of the economy. Of the family. Of the politics. Of the bull-shit. They were meant to be the matriarchs in the most beautiful ways- the power, the care, the nurture, the love. If they wanted it.

If a Black woman did not want to be a matriarch, taking care of people and all their shit, it was meant that the Black woman could choose, without consequence, without looks of derision.

She could choose something else for herself entirely; varying levels of “femininity”, “masculinity”, in between, on the edges, that is to say, the Black woman was meant to do whatever the fuck she wants or whatever they want, because a Black woman was meant to be power and love.

Black women were not meant to be objectified, ridiculed, paid less, or ever ever called “Roastbeef.” Black women, do you understand, were meant to be cherished? A Black women was meant to be fucking loved. Black women were meant to be encouraged, listened to, poured into— do you know what love is? Like do you get it at all? Black women were meant to be regarded? Considered? Believed? I mean, come on. How is that not obvious?

Black women were not meant to shovel snow.

It is not to say that Black women can’t shovel snow. Black women– can be the best snow shovelers, or the worst, whichever they choose, whichever it is. But it just wasn’t meant for them.

They were meant to enjoy the shit out of their lives, and shoveling snow is not fun or even entertaining after that first shovel; it just isn’t, and anyone who loves to shovel snow is a glutton for punishment, you see, and Black women were only meant for adoration and veneration, which shoveling snow just does not really provide, unless of course, she wants it to be, and then in that case, it is meant for her, and always was.