Concrete Rose

They called me “Hottentot Venus”, I pray that you call me Inspiration.

Dear Sons and Daughters of the Sun,

If a wolf cries boy will the tears matter? Will the agony echoed through the wolf’s howl be muffled by the unforgiving beast of fear that lives within the hearts of mankind? Will the big bad wolf’s story ever be told? The story of how she so gallantly fought against hunters to protect her offspring and her legacy. Will her truth be buried with her memory and replaced by fables and fairytales of her monstrous instincts?

I remember the very last tear that fell from my eyes, I named her Amour. I gently asked that she would never leave me. She was the closest feeling to love that I had felt in many years. When I parted ways with Amour I knew that I was also saying goodbye to life. My story is like that of the wolf who cried boy, rarely ever told and sadly misunderstood. My cry for help was also hushed by fear. Unlike the wolf I was a human being. It never mattered that I too dreamed of happiness. In the eyes of my alleged superiors I was an animal. If I only knew I also had a legacy to protect I wouldn’t have felt so alone. For almost 200 years I’ve felt the piercing deception of history’s pin poking at my memory. I just want to rest peacefully now.

To the sons and daughters of Europe I was a freak of nature, to nature I was simply a woman. I was a product of her beauty and a reflection of her wonders. I wasn’t some mutation of normality placed on this earth to be subjected to their ignorance. The way that I was created made me no more of a freak than the actions of my secret admirers. Their eyes spoke truths their mouths would never admit to.I wasn’t inferior, I was bewilderingly beautiful. They publicly gawked but privately longed to ignite the fires of my passion. They desired to understand my curvaceous body so they sought to simplify the complexity of my composition. I was labeled inferior because the wonders of my ambiguity could not be tamed. I was a woman, emotional yet strong and ready to love eternally. I was no different from their mothers or even their daughters. I had dreams; I loved and longed to live happily. I was more than images of a hypersexual primitive beast exhibited as a part of a freak show. I am Sarah Baartman and my memory lives on through you.

According to history’s ink I am the “Hottentot Venus”, a Khoisan woman from South Africa whose body was a freak attraction placed on display throughout London and France. I was a slave in Cape Town, South Africa before being “discovered” by a ship surgeon and persuaded to travel to London. I was caged and placed on display for starving eyes to feast upon. Stripped of my pride, I stood there naked before audiences of lustful citizens who claimed to be superior. My buttocks and genitals, which they viewed as abnormally large, became objects of their fascination. Even though I was subjected to extreme humiliation history’s pen is sure to inform you that this was of my free will. The notion that I willingly exploited by body as if I enjoyed it only perpetuates the stereotype of the oversexed primitive black woman. From London to Paris my body was exhibited as if I weren’t human. I eventually turned to a life of prostitution and died at age 25 of inflammatory and eruptive sickness, some say syphilis. Even after my death my genitals and other parts of my body were pickled and displayed in bottles at La Musee de l’Homme in Paris. For 160 years my body parts were exhibited for audiences to indulge in my exploitation. Just recently my remains were returned to my homeland and properly buried.

Since the day I said goodbye to the earth I have been unable to rest in peace. I can’t help to feel as if I’m still on display with every image of degradation I see being produced and consumed in the world today. Imagine being naked in a cage and placed on display for all to watch. Remove the cage and change the early 1800’s to the new millennium and not much has changed. Women of color are still being publicly degraded and subjugated. With each flash of exploitation you are stomping on the memories of those who came before you. The exploitation may not always be in the form of sexual subjectivity. Today, the perpetuation of stereotypes depicted on what you call “reality television” seems to be the greatest exploitation. I see women who have acquired fame through simply selling sex when I know that they have other talents, and more importantly a brain. Not only black women are degraded, however I feel as if we are still the least appreciated. I see women who neither look like me or you receiving high praise for their curves when we’ve carried the blessing since the beginning of time. Sometimes it makes me laugh, but it’s not long until my laughter turn into tears.

I simply ask that you remember me. My question for you is who will you let write the story of your life? What will the world remember you by?According to history I was a freak of nature who willingly walked into the circus of exploitation to be the subject of ridicule and freakish infatuation. The world will never know the thoughts that crossed my mind as I traveled to Europe. They’ll never know why I participated in such cruel and inhumane practices. The reason is simply because I never wrote my own story. My story has been told by a stranger who never met me. Now my story is his, they call it history. Black women, I ask that you own your story. I ask that you write each and every sentence and close this chapter of degradation. Some may call me the very first “Vixen”. If I knew how you would have been impacted I probably would have fought a little longer to stay alive. I would have fought a little harder to write my own story for you to read. I would have fought for the world to see that our bodies are to be celebrated and not subjugated. This is why I still cannot rest in peace.

I wrote this letter for all daughters of the sun to remember me. If you have never learned of my story I am now here to share. We can’t rely on strangers to tell the story of our lives. I want you to know that you were blessed with supernatural beauty. Black women your makings are a work of art. I want you to embrace your skin in all of its diversity. From the deepest sun kissed coatings to the brightest reflections of light I want your beauty to be celebrated.From the fullness of your lips to the secrets that hide in the crevices of your brilliance I want you to be celebrated. I want you to love yourself so much that you never place a price on your beauty. I want you to be remembered for the changes you’ve made in the world. I want you to be remembered for the hearts you’ve touched and the lives you’ve inspired. Learn from my story. Think of me when you chose your movie roles. Think of me before allowing a television network to capitalize off of your misunderstood ways. Think of me as you dominate sports, the corporate world, law and medicine. Entertainment is not the only path that leads to the fulfillment of your dreams. When the world places labels on you I want you to stand proudly and proclaim, I am __________ ________ and I am BEAUTIFUL. You deserve to be loved and admired; you don’t deserve to be exploited. Your mind can take you places that your body can only follow.

I also wrote this letter for every black man. I want the world to see that while you too have bodies resembling classical architecture your minds are far more intriguing. I want you to show the world that not only can you dominate sports but you can also dominate business. Aspire to own the brands that have established extreme wealth off of your unprecedented skills. I want you to take the hustle developed on the street corners to the boardrooms and establish your presence. Establish empires of excellence that the fruits of your labor will one day enjoy. Always remember how important it is to celebrate and understand black women. In every black woman you should see your mother, sister or daughter and show respect. Even when you find a black woman who has never learned how to respect herself treat her with respect and set that standard. Don’t allow yourself to be degraded to dogs through the exploitation of your women by calling them “bitches”. You are a king, always remember that. You don’t have to be a pawn in the ploy to eradicate the strength of the black family. There is no image more serene than that of black love. For every black woman that is degraded you are also degraded. Black man I ask that you learn how to love the black woman again. With that being said, black women I ask that you allow yourselves to be loved. Write your very own love story and paste it to the sky.I encourage you to write stories that your great grandchildren will be proud to share. Love each other and build each other up. Don’t allow history to label you as the wolf that everyone feared or as the primitive beast that needed salvation. You are the living legacy of Kings and Queens who have walked this earth before you. March on, march with love. Always remember me.

Love, Sarah Baartman

Props to A Tribe Called One ...i was truly educated today and reading this changed a lot for me, how i view things, my feelings toward the media, and what i want to do with my life...somewhere in it it starts with the kids, definitley becoming a mentor. We have to make a change in these young kids lives and MOST IMPORTANTLY SHOW THEM THE TRUTH. They are the future, we cannot continue to have them live their lives blindly. This is my new mission in life: to spread the truth, to expose people to the truths that THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW. Our society is ruined by the media, we;ve got to take it back!

I published this post because of a specific reason. Throughout my entire life in school, before college, I learned very little IF ANY black history. What I did learn simply was the basics. But when I got to college, specifically CAU, it was an eye opening experience. In my history classes we learned so much about MY OWN CULTURE that i never knew, which to me was the biggest betrayl ever. I felt betrayed by the School District of Philadelphia, because they never taught me about Sarah Baartman, Marcus Garvey, Huey Newton, The Black Panthers, Angela Davis, or the Kush and Nubian Empire, and how much the Greeks stole from us and made it theirs. I felt like I had been blinded my whole life. So now I want to share the knowledge about MY OWN CULTURE, that I had to go to an HBCU (CAU) to get. For this I love my HBCU. Forever indebted to you...and Sallie Mae.. lmao!

Home is defintley where the heart is no one loves their city more than me!
I chose this picture because it's unexpected, Philly is not really known for its skate boarders. When you ask someone about what they know about Philadelphia they automatically say violence! Which is true but we have so many different communties/subcultures in Philly! You have the hood of course but downtown you have the Yuppies, Skate Boarders, Artists,Graffitti Artists, Tattoo Artists, Rockers, Singers, a Gay Community, Italian Community, Fashion Designers (Shoutout to Moore College of Art and the Art Institute)!!, We actually have a Philadelphia Fashion Week, and so much more! Expand your horizions people! Philadelphia is not all bad! And that ends my early afternoon rant! lol Pics seen at Philadelphia Designer Vintage Lizzi-Kay's Site, Go Check it out!