Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh

This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman…

I love a feminist man because his love for me is pure. He loves my womanhood,  celebrates my humanity and embraces my imperfections.  He places my entire self at his level, and our equality is not to be compromised.  He believes that we were both created in the same beautiful image–from his rib I was birthed because without me his existence was far from complete. My feminist man lets me choose the role I want to play not because he’s a punk, and bends to my every command, but because part of our equality includes freedom and freewill endowed to us by our creator. The role I choose so happens to be one that allows me to cater to, create with and provide for. It also allows for him to be in the kitchen with me because it’s a task without support I can’t seem to enjoy. My feminist man doesn’t tell me what I should do or not do because I am a woman, and for that I am thankful.

My feminist man’s love for social justice is matched with my passion. We speak against the bigots, the sexist, the abusers and the wrongdoers with the same tone–fierce, with love, sans condemnation and with truth. He argues against why my sisters should be slut shamed, why my black sisters should be equally worthy as my other sisters, and why we should all #fuckthepatriarchy. When my sisters are sexually abused he doesn’t look to what they were doing, how they did it or what could have been avoided. He looks to the perpetrator, and demands justice. He doesn’t get brownie points for being a feminist because it’s not something he does for show. He does it because he believes it’s his way of life. In fact he doesn’t label it feminism because equality doesn’t need any other name.

Together we fight against misogyny and misandry that pollutes our community. We believe the hate and animosity keeps us from achieving the most important tasks of loving our neighbors, breaking through barriers that keep women at the bottom and confines us in boxes to be opened for sexual purposes. We fight against these things because a united front is necessary to get what we believe is deserved all in the name of equality.

My feminist man and I make plans to have a future. We plan on having Sean Bell’s, DJ Henry’s, Trayvon Martin’s, Rekia Boyd’s, Renisha McBride’s and Jordan Davis’. Black boys and girls who lives matter. We plan on raising them to ask for help without the fear if being shot in the back,  playing loud music that helps them get into the groove, and wearing hoodies that keeps them comfortable. We plan on teaching them to give the utmost respect to all of humanity regardless of the differences that exist. We don’t plan on raising martyrs, but fighters, survivors and truth sayers that will change the world.

I love a feminist man because the worth that I carry is not only contained in my vagina, but in my mind, soul and spirit.  All these things indeed make the most passionate/explosive night, but also a passionate speech, a Voir Dire and a winning POTUS campaign (lol). I love a feminist man because he is an educator, humanity lover, community warrior and family builder. I love a feminist man because it’s my choice.

En tout cas,



Woman, thou art strong

I was raised by a lot of strong women. They all embody in some form the modern Proverbs 31 Woman. Though they may not have intentionally done so they took this beautiful gift, and created with it. They showed us the importance of caring for a family: creating and preparing a table for a family, teaching the children the fundamental values of life, feeding multitudes and making a $1 out of $0.15. When I think of these women in my life, I envision that lone mother lifting a truck off her toddler. They would move mountains, heaven, and earth to be sure that we suffered not, and that all our needs were supplied. They did it all out of love, and I know this now.

Fortunately for you this isn’t a tale of how I am destined to be a Stepford wife -far from. I haven’t refuted any of the strong women teachings over the years, but I once misinterpreted their love as weakness. They toiled, were bent, tossed and took emotional blows, but were resilient. They continued to love, continued to work hard and continued to create a life. They never gave up on anything or anyone that was worth the fight. I didn’t get it because I just knew I would throw in the towel…and the one time I did I immediately realized it wasn’t about their weakness, but mine.

Somewhere along the teachings I picked up the idea that to be a strong woman you needed to not feel. You also needed to be guarded because any distractions would keep you from fulfilling the most important task of providing. Your heart rolled up along with those sleeves, and only came out for the required playtime. I saw what I wanted until my love became like theirs –personified. As my love personified I accepted that these women had faults, but loved. Love was the driver of all they did, and all they worked for. Love has become my commander in chief. My Agape, my Phileo, my Storge, my Eros.

I love fluidly

En tout cas,