“MyBlackQUEENNubianPrincessQUEENMaBronzeGoddessMostEffervescentRoyalOne…
…can you spare me some change? I got a hankerin’ for a fish sammich.”
Being called a QUEEN used to mean something…more.
Regal. Royal. The Chosen One. Most Important. Most Excellent. Most Respected.
And for the moment…The Most Beautiful Girl in the World.
In my Prince voice.
Now it’s as common as paper…and just as thin if out of the same mouth comes the B-word because The QUEEN didn’t respond as desired or at all.
I was surfing on social media and came across a photo of a woman perched atop a large tree branch…legs agape with a Sheba-esque headpiece on, exotic nip-cooch coverings and not much else. The word QUEEN was prominently displayed in the top left. Nicki Minaj. The timing of the proclamation was not missed as she’s had a bruise-worthy ride on that “throne” as of late due to the swift rise of the equally crass yet talented Cardi B.
Criticism is not the point. After all a few cuts from QUEEN made it onto my starred playlist and FINESSE with Cardi and Bruno is my JAMMMMMM…but I digress. The whole thing has simply got me thinking about what actually defines a QUEEN….to me. And why for a long time I dared not refer to myself as one.
PRIM & PROPER
A constant battle rages inside. The Tomboy. She enjoys men’s clothes, wild-legged speed walking, passionate debates, loud talking, hard fast dancing and trading uppercut punches to the butt with her big brother. She gulps her drinks, smacks when she eats apples in particular and snorts when she laughs hard. She is The Girl who grew up wanting to be one of The Guys. Then there’s The Lady. She likes silent mornings, drinking herbal tea with her pinkie up, collecting various perfumes, wearing sexy stilettos, dresses and soft lacey things. She sashays, aware of the sway of her hips and exfoliated thighs. Hand lotion, lip gloss and high standards are mandatory. She is my prissy mother incarnate.
CONFIDENT & SELF-ASSURED
My short 6 year old legs dangled from the plastic covered pink couch as I waited while the photographer set up the lights and camera in the next room. Finally SHE emerged. Long cream colored one shoulder dress that highlighted her chocolate brown skin. Her curly fro was cut low with a flower placed just right. She was all face and head and teeth hiding nowhere with each click of the camera. Beautiful. Black. Bold. Always. I was in awe of what my childish mind sensed was her bravery…her confidence. My SHE-ro from birth. Even then I knew there was something she possessed that I did not…yet.
BEAUTIFUL
I WOKE UP LIKE THIS. Flawless. Hot chick with every tousled strand miraculously in place, faux natural make up on buttery smooth skin topped with effortless style. Must be nice. Mai reality? Puffy oil-slicked face that looks like Creed’s fist was waiting under the sheets for it. Yawning pores and hormone pimples that waited a couple of decades to surface on the regular. Fro suffocated in twists and satin. Ain’t no flawless in it. My mother passed on to me what her own mother told her. “You look aiiight. But don’t bank on your looks. You betta get you an education!”
So mai definition of a QUEEN? It would be that little prissy lady I call Ma. The one who has always maintained her royal character, in the middle of a watchful crowd or just in front of her mini-king and queen in the making, who, decades later, still have to be reminded from time to time to always hold their heads up high because they are ROYALTY too.
mai lesson – Royals rule their worlds so much better when they see a clear example on the throne before them. Who do you see?