I want tothank everybody for the positive feedback and support they gave me while I wasgone. I appreciated that. Instead of talking about that war, for now I wouldlike to focus on the personal wars we all fight here.
One of mypartners was telling a group of us about his trip to Texas recently. “Whatthe hoes was looking like out there, bruh?” one ofus asked.
Immediately,my partner pulled out his picture phone and showed us several photos of a nakedyoung sister in some very suggestive positions on a bed, behind a refrigeratorand a few other places doing a “few other things” I won’t mention.
As theguys giggled and whistled, I thought back to my last visit to a strip club. Itwas a small, dimly lit club in New Orleans East. Luscious black women swungfrom poles and exposed themselves to intoxicated revelers for meredollars.
As thedisc jockey played Too Short’s “Freaky Tales,” I received the lap dance of mylife from a thick beauty after sticking a dollar in her thong.
Sheworked so hard for that dollar; you would have thought I gave her a ten. As the song climaxed, she got up, stoodin front of me, and revealed herself even further.
I fumbledthrough my pockets frantically thinking, “Please have more ones. PLEASE!!!”Unfortunately, all I had was a twenty, so that was a wrap. I wasn’t that dizzy. She moved on.
The DJslowed it down and played “24/7” by Kevon Edmonds and I sat in my chair with adumb face, recovering from what had just occurred. Then I noticedsomething.
The girlwho had just “performed” for me was in a corner away from the rest of the crowdslow dancing by herself.
With hereyes closed and a look of deep longing, she swayed to the music, embracingherself as if she were holding an imaginary lover. She was completely oblivious to the hoots and drunkenadvances of horny male patrons.
At thatmoment, I didn’t see her as the stripper in that club. I saw a little girl with plats combingthe hair of a Cabbage Patch doll.
I saw a younggirl in a second grade classroom proudly announcing to her classmates that shewanted to be a judge or a doctor when she grows up.
I saw ateenage girl confiding in her diary, expressing her insecurities before sayinggood night prayers.
I sawthat same teenage girl on her first date, nervous out of her mind but trying tomaintain composure, hoping for her first kiss.
Then Isaw that teenage girl crying after her first heartbreak. Maybe she had been hurt by someone wholeft her feeling empty.
Somethinghappened somewhere to destroy this young lady’s sense of self-worth because Idon’t believe this is where she dreamt she’d be now, degrading herself likethis for money.
Whateverhappened, she was still somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister, somebody’s promdate, girlfriend, somebody’s something!
Here, shewas just a piece of meat on a stage subjecting herself to a subconsciousslaughter of her own self-value as vultures like me price tagged her beauty.This was a sister, and here I was, a “brother,” perpetuating this cycle ofself-hate by encouraging this disrespectful behavior and treatment of a womanand exploiting this weakness in her security. She was a reflection of myshallowness and emptiness as she danced in that corner almost naked and alone.
As Ilooked around the room and noticed all of the husbands and boyfriends who wouldbe going home to their significant others after the party was over, professinglove, I wondered who this young woman would be going home to.
Iwondered if there was someone in her life to tell her that she was beautiful,physically and mentally, and whether sincere lips had ever told her they lovedher.
There wasdefinitely a ho in the house that night, and itwas me. She didn’t belong there, Ithought. Neither did I.
