On Black, Fat, Femme Positivity: Why I'm at My Heaviest, My Most Confident, and Don't Need Your Approval to Exist

"If I breathe in public for five seconds, it’s also common that someone will feel the need to tell me, “YASSSSS!” in an attempt to cheer on my fat Black femme existence like I’m a damn animal learning how to be housebroken. People love to be voyeurs of fat Blackness, and inadvertently become more problematic by trying to “yasssss” us through anything we do. Our mere survival is read as motivational to all those witnessing our existence, and it inspires everyone who’s not us because they’re actually partaking in the subordination of our humanity. Our humanity and beauty are seen as less than thin able bodied-ness, maintaining a hierarchy even when we receive these empty-ass compliments or praises. It only reaffirms that our dehumanization validates your safety." -Ashleigh Shackelford

Not even 24 hours after reading Ashleigh's full contribution: “Fuck You, Pay Me: Reparations for Fat Black Bitches and Everything We Provide” to Wear Your Voice Mag from whence the above is excerpted, I experienced this very microaggression.

Like many millennials, I have a handful of online dating accounts and/or apps. This morning I awoke to a message from a faceless profile lauding me for my daring to be confident in my pictures. He says, “I love how proud you look in your photos. Good job!”

Sir, excuse the fuck outta you! I wasn’t aware that I was doing a job by existing in this fat, Black, femme body. And since you think I'm doing such a damn good job, fuck you, pay me! I normally would clap back and read the aggressor for filth. But I didn't even have the energy, so I just blocked him. Existing is exhausting for a fat, Black woman, girl or femme. And some mornings, you just wanna get up and get ready for work without verbally handing someone their shit.

The above excerpt is so spot on. My very existence is used as either motivation porn, or is disavowed and shamed. I can't just fucking be. A thin, White woman wouldn't encounter the same type of commentary, because her being confident, comfortable and proud in who she is is normalized. Meanwhile, the fact that I would have the audacity to take a few pictures of myself, look happy and secure and post them on a dating site is a feat in the eyes of our society. FOH with that bullshit, fam.

My existence isn't a parade for you to clap and cheer (or jeer) as I walk along living my fucking life. It has taken a lot of pain and heartache to get to where I am mentally, emotionally and spiritually with myself and the space I occupy on this earth. Even now, at my heaviest (the number is none of your damned business), I am at my most confident. I feel beautiful, sexy even--whaaat?! I am 98.9% comfortable in my skin, I have a clean bill of health from my doctor as far as you are concerned (minus these muhfuggin allergies and asthma), and it ain't none of your business who is in my bed. 

My weight in pounds, my chart at the doctor's office, and who "dares" to sleep with me is none of your concern. But if you want so badly to laud my existence as me doing a good job being my gahtdamn self, cut me a check; run me my money, heaux!

I don't have much else to post here right now, as Ashleigh did a beautiful job summing up my very sentiments. But I'm sure I'll write on this subject again.

Happy Thursday!

-m

No. 16 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Everybody Knows

Auntie Nina sang to me tales of Billie clubs beating Black bodies
And Hollidays past
The bitter taste of festive cakes and pies made of Strange Fruit
They made jest and just expect us to ingest hateful truths
We hang while our forefathers laugh

Everybody knows about Mississippi, God.
Everybody knows about Alabama, God.
Everybody knows about South Africa, God.
Everybody knows about LA, God.
Everybody knows about Texas, God.
Everybody knows about Florida, God.
Everybody knows about Nigeria, God.
Everybody knows about New York, God.
Everybody knows about Ferguson, God.
Everybody knows about Kenya, God.
Everybody knows about Baltimore, God.

Damn...

Mirakol Smith, April 28, 2015

No. 13 of my 30 in 15 for Nation Poetry Month (don't know if I'm gonna make it, lol)

Ode to Black Men

Forgive me if I

Stare
Drool a little bit
Twirl my hair

Catch a whiff of your smell
Graze your arm or chest
Excuse me while I
Catch my breath

Less than I can say
I'll watch your step
As you walk my way
I speak of the depth

Of your brown, brown eyes
Your tall, wide gait      

You're no more wise
That I've taken the bait      
                                                       
Of the love that danced on your lips as you spoke

Or your sun-kissed skin
Cacao is akin to your melanin
Don't flash that winning grin
I almost choke   
                                                     
On my words to describe you

Many come close, but none contend...
There is just something about Black men.

Mirakol Smith, April 25, 2015

No. 7 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Not Here For It.

I am not here to appease the masses
of people who cry buckets of privileged tears
Neither am I here to trapeze to and fro to coddle stubborn asses
who are so [willingly] oblivious in their privilege that they won't admit their fears
That maybe, perhaps they have been wrong this whole time
That quite possibly, most definitely not all these unarmed Indigenous peoples committed crimes
That Tanisha Brown's death was justly ruled a homicide
and her killer is walking free; they just let dude slide
That an unsuspecting Rekia Boyd was killed by an off-duty officer
with no justification but 'suspicion' when he hauled off and shot her
That Trayvon Martin really was just buying Skittles and Arizona iced tea
and met his untimely demise at the hands of a vigilante creep
That an officer--erm--plainclothesman brought Eric Garner [with an illegal chokehold] to his death
as the man cried out: I. Can't. Breathe. He took his final breath
That an unarmed Michael Brown's misdemeanors should never have warranted a death sentence,
but this officer who killed him execution style, shot him--and meant it
That Tamir Rice and his toy gun were simply having (perhaps foolish) but boyish fun
yet, 15 seconds on the scene, cop discharged murderous bullets from his gun
How do you explain 'he looked about 20' to a 12-year-old boy's Mum

Just in case you were wondering where this is coming from
I would explain
But at this point, I'm tired
Tired of saying the same damn thang

If you can't find wrong in a justice system that vindicates the killing of unarmed human beings...
Wake. The eff. Up.
I am not here to protect your vain feelings

Mirakol Smith, April 17, 2015

No. 3 of my 30 in 15 for National Poetry Month

Untitled

I have believed what they've told me about myself.
Their truths about me.
'You're so extroverted and outgoing!'
'You're such a people person!'
'You're friends with everyone!'
But, you see...they don't know me.

I love people, but they annoy me.
I like my space but am also outgoing.
I have few close friends and many acquaintances.
And yielding my energy often relinquishes me of my maintenances.

See...I am what some call an ambivert; an outgoing introvert.
I think and feel deeply. And when you hurt, I hurt.
I am compassionate and intense. I am pensive and subtle-minded.
And my brightness, in part, dims my spirit--broken, troubled, and disquieted.

I began to only see it, when I was alone and left in my head.
Facing my personal darknesses and inmost thoughts had become something I'd dread.
So I'd throw myself into others, in hopes to escape what I feared deeply...
To be by myself and be forced to re-meet me.

Hello 'strange' 15 year old, with the jet black hair, necktie and stripy socks.
I see you with your questions, listening to your 'strange' music, donning a sleeve that showcases your heart.

Never simply accept someone else's truth about you.
You are okay. Being who you are is okay.
You're different, and you'll soon find that you like it that way.

- Mirakol Smith, April 14, 2015

We're Halfway Through National Poetry Month, and here I come with my 2 cents (a day)...

I figured the remainder of this month would give me a good motivator and foray back into writing. It's been entirely too long! We won't talk about all of the drafts sitting in my queue (here on blogger and in my notes app on my phone). Anywho, I'll try to provide two poems each day over the next 15 days to hit my 30/30 goal. Here are my first two pieces. I wrote them at ages 18 and 19. Seemingly in love with someone who didn't love me like I loved them...a bit stupid as we all are at that age. Deep and profound for no reason. Lol! Enjoy!


No Strings Attached - by Mirakol Smith, circa August 2009, edited April 2015

call me Gepetta...for I am the she playing on your heart strings like a puppeteer.
a callused-fingered violinist
feel me...
can you feel me, you feel me.
let me know you feel where I'm coming from.
fingers going numb. sweat trembles from the balcony above you.
I pull, you dance...on cue. you're my Pinocchio
with an ever-growing nose. the absence of truth...I can't think
as I blink back tears whilst the stage play continues
wanting to be yours, because I could use...somebody.
someone like you.
I'll cut your strings...



Untitled - Mirakol Smith, circa March 2009, edited April 2015

I gasped for my last breath as I died in your eyes...do you love me?
If you don't, then you've lied with your eyes.
And I've tried to grasp concept of this clairvoyance. That gut feeling--tummy twisting.
Do you hold that same sagacity? Can you feel me? Can you read me? Do you love me?
If you don't, my intuition has failed me. Thus, I have failed epically. I fell epically into a love that...
In essence, finds it hard to love me. Finding himself loving me, but not wanting to love me because he's finding himself. Find self...fine, self!
So, I told myself I'd be fine by myself. If I just mind myself. And focus on me.
But the love in his eyes make it hard for me.
Playing those two damn songs. On repeat. Constantly. As I let tears fall.
In hopes of one day receiving that knock on the door, that "oh my gosh it's him" call...for him to tell me...
He loves me. Do you love me? Please say it's so...Do you love me? My heart pauses for the know...Do you love me...or is that gut feeling, your sagacity, my intuition, the love in your eyes deceiving me?




See you tomorrow! :)