It has been a struggle to find the words
To explain what that Black woman
in that White House
Has meant to me
But as I keep digging toward the bottom of my heart
In search for words
I push past her 2017 look
And her fake lashes
I push past her bangs and silk press,
And her flips of old
Digging for something that looks more tangible to others.
I push past the first time I realized
Michelle had a big ol' booty
That made me rejoice
And look back at mine
But that made white America squirm and frown.
I push past her side eye at that husband of hers
Taking selfies at Mandela's funeral
And making him switch seats because
He forgot where he was
And who he was
And who SHE was
for a moment
And the Black mama in her
Wasn't about to be embarrassed that day.
I dig past the first time I saw her on live TV
Wearing a black and red dress
Taking the stage with her brown baby girls
with their Easter Sunday curls
on a Tuesday night in November.
I remember the way her long, long brown legs
And the shine on them
Like she had just finished up throwing on some shea butter back stage.
I remember having my breath taken away
In that dress
in that moment.
I dig past the memory of
Holding my breath,
Praying that he wasn't shot as he gave his victory speech
Tearfully praying that she wasn't thinking the same thing.
I dig past images of
A thousand gorgeous ball gowns
Walking from Marine One
And photos of her
Walking with two tall, graceful young women
Cut from the same cloth as their mother
To a photo of Malia holding a campaign sign
And Michelle holding little Sasha in her arms,
Looking exhausted and reluctant but still
Campaigning for him
Because she supported him
And loved him.
She believed in him.
I keep digging past magazine covers
Raving at her toned biceps
How you can get yours to look just like them!
And how she needs to cover up.
Her giving terrorist fist bumps to her Muslim husband
How she is actually a man
Tricking us all because
No Black woman could be so strong
And so smart
And so accomplished
And look the President of these here United States in the eye
The way she does.
I keep digging.
I think I'm near the bottom
Of this heart of mine
But not yet.
I come upon the way her husband looks at her
In a room stuffed with thousands of people
With millions more watching at home.
With damp eyes,
That almost makes you feel uncomfortable
Its turned into a private moment
With 25 years of late night whispers
And there, oh.
At the bottom of my very heart
With her face plastered on it
Asia Renée is an activist, mom of two and lactation counselor. Her passions include reproductive justice, dismantling white supremacy and patriarchy while reveling in the sisterhood that is #blackgirlmagic. She writes poetry at blackwomangaze.wordpress.com and is chief editor of The Conscious Parent Collective (consciousparentcollective.com), a place for all to find resources and advice for raising socially conscious children.