His breath on my neck, so hot it burns.
In and out, in and out… pause
Telling me this is what I want, this is what I need
because as a Black woman I always want and need this
wonderful powerful dick,
So who am I to complain about being raped
when as a black woman our abuse is what this country is made from
That, no matter how many times June Jordan says that she is not wrong,
wrong is not her name,
in reality, it is.
And I am wrong for being me
So who am I to complain when I am supposed to suffer in silence
Who am I to complain when all he is doing is what society taught him
When the community turns a blind eye because it’s not an issue of racism
And after all, all we are is pussy power, right Eldrige Cleaver,
A message you preached and others listened without realizing the impact of the words
Who am I to expect respect when historically I’m reduced to my anatomy.
Who am I to complain about this baby,
The baby made from hurt, torture, and constant pain
A baby, while still in my stomach,
I tried so hard to love because I had yet to learn what love was
a baby I couldn’t fathom protecting when I couldn’t even protect myself.
And when my body rejected the baby and the rapist who made it disguised as my lover
Who was I to be sad when I secretly felt relief
The same relief black slave women soldiers felt
when they concocted herbs to abort,
so they wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of having their children born,
only to continue the cycle
So who am I to complain or mourn the death of a baby
who was a result of pain, destruction, and silence
Who am I to complain about pain and oppression
when oppression is me, is my name my name my name.
Who am I to complain?
Although my name means unusual or extraordinary,
neither word describes me.
My story isn’t unusual or extraordinary but the norm and no one gives a damn.
So who am I to complain about being raped when I am no different than Lady Day, Charmaine Neville and millions of black slaves whose bodies weren’t their own
Five year old Lady Day walkin into the police station,
Blood running down her thighs from the dick that stripped her childhood
She was wrong for talking, for not being a silent pussy, strictly anatomy
Or the enslaved queens stripped of their dignity by white and black men alike
So who am I to complain for being raped
I can never speak up quick enough because I am taught that silence is my virtue
Unless it’s about race, of course.
His fists hit my face leaving marks to remind me of my weakness
I’m starting to believe my melanin is simply a permanent bruise
A constant reminder of a history of rape, oppression, pain, racism, sexism, classism
Silent, obvious, but unacknowledged
Who am I to complain about being beaten especially when it is at the hand of a Black man
I can’t speak out because I betray the race and I can’t be silent because I betray myself.
So who am I to complain?
Isn’t that my role as the mule of the earth?
To take on the burden of all, especially this black man who feels beat down by “the man” and takes it out on my jaw
Who am I to complain about waking up in the hospital because
I thought when people say love hurts,
this is what they meant.
who am I to complain about being beat
Because the beat down the black man takes from society is so much more important?
So who am I to complain about being beaten when black women have and continue to be society’s punching bag,
Who am I to complain about anything
because I have no voice
I have no rights
I have no place
Who am I to do anything but be invisible, suffer in silence, and put up with the multiple jeaopardies,
All except race of course.
So instead of asking who am I to complain,
The real question is, who am I?
Although my story is neither unusual or extraordinary it is mine, theirs, hers and ours.
We are unique but collective
I am a rape survivor, domestic abuse survivor, love hurts survivor, life survivor.
And who am I to complain
