Author: Dorisha Hendrix

Posted on: October 20, 2021 Posted by: Dorisha Hendrix Comments: 0

The Woman in Me

The woman in me I would like to express my grievances.  I’ve been caught in a life held by the disadvantage of how every black girl needs her mother. – I’ve never quite learned how to do my hair. Barrettes, hot combs, sitting in a chair. – One thing I do love is my brown skin. A woman I’ve become with fire within. – A beauty I’ve found  in my…

Posted on: October 18, 2021 Posted by: Dorisha Hendrix Comments: 0

When Africans were Taken

Some 400 years ago the unruly Whites began the mentality that the inferior Negro lay bound in shackles. – Years-long practices in abuse pressed silent wonderings. Dark ebony skin were bound and forgotten, disdain and denied.  – They tried to justify the division of two worlds. They fondled our own with intimate moments. – They took our name, our people, our bodies, our lives. – There was no remedy. They…

Posted on: October 15, 2021 Posted by: Dorisha Hendrix Comments: 0

Rather who I be

I often wonder will the color of my skin always hold memories and caress lashes in the eyes of others. – Though I be black, I be woman. So might I stand behind our men on the days they choose to protect us. – Rather there be days where sensuality defines my worth. – Might I be worth more then what you see? – Though  I be woman, though I…

Posted on: October 13, 2021 Posted by: Dorisha Hendrix Comments: 0

Call for a Voice

Call for a voice given to me by God. Crafted by my ancestors to bring to me the perfect peace. A tree deeply rooted inside of me, guided through generations of a family. Woven by the hands of my grandmother, divine passion ignited by strife. A voice that cracks open bodies and unearths such holy things. Shout aloud for freedom and take wing.  Know that brown bodies have futures. Plans…

Posted on: September 23, 2021 Posted by: Dorisha Hendrix Comments: 0

The Day I Met Your Mother

When I met your mother the calluses on her hands  showed me the kind of boy you are; one who is well cared for. Her hands told the story of  the kind of woman she is— One who holds the title ‘mother’  between her teeth like a bullet that just missed the skin  of her brown boy’s back. I bet your curfew  never missed dinner time. Never went a day …