My second to last day at Little Shop was filled with excitement. The day began with my mother and her book group coming to see the Matinee.
The author of the month was Debra Dickerson. It was quite fitting that the front page of Salon featured a piece written by her. The topic? Black women's sexuality in America.
Sounds kind of selacious, it wasn't at all. That's the problem. Every black woman that I know has experienced one of the things described in the article (read it here). Invisible. That's how I feel at times.
Fast forward a few hours. The moms are gone, and James and I are headed to the clubs.
The evening was filled with desperation. The black men were desperate to catch one of the scores of white girls dancing suggestively while they imbibed. The black women were desperate for any kind of attention. Any at all. What's new.
James and I had a great evening. I even have war wounds to prove it.
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