The making of a woman–a Black woman at that–is a challenge. There are several odds that may deter our growth, mostly all of them social constructs (gender, race, class: man-made stratus), nebulous and arbitrary forms of difference that are enforced without any merit or grounding. Differences that suggest we cannot do or say or be (or wear) whatever we so choose: that biologically, pathologically we are benign to self-edification.
Somehow, we withstand the odds, because quite frankly as much as I do not want someone, something to totalize my being, I certainly do not want them totalizing my look. No, no that is so much apart of my own identity, and most certainly an autobiography authored at the tip of my own proverbial pen.
