A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but a woman called by a devaluing name will only be weakened by the misnomer.
A woman is careful with judgment, is courteous, has courage, and is much given to kindness, support, and respect for other women.
And my breasts—it’s better not to mention them at all except to say that they seemed to be in a race to see which could be first to reach my knees.
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes, and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
Each time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stands up for all women.
I had long known that there were worlds of difference between males and men, as there were between females and women. Genitalia indicated sex, but work, discipline, courage, and love were needed for the creation of men and women.
I wanted to be a wife and to create a beautiful home to make my man happy, but there was more to life than being a diligent maid with a permanent pussy.
I’d rather be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.
It is imperative that a woman keep her sense of humor intact and at the ready. She must see, even if only in secret, that she is the funniest, looniest woman in her world, which she should also see as being the most absurd world of all times.
My mother says a woman who will tell her own age will tell anything.
She spends half her time making herself attractive to men, and the other half trying to divine which of the attracted are serious enough to marry her, and which wish to ram her against the nearest wall and jab into her recklessly.
Let me remind all women that we live longer and better lives when we have sisters we love, not necessarily born in our bloodline or of our race.
The Black mother perceives destruction at every door, ruination at each window, and even she herself is not beyond her own suspicion. She questions whether she loves her children enough—or more terribly, does she love them too much? Do her looks cause embarrassment—or even more terrifying, is she so attractive her sons begin to desire her and her daughters begin to hate her? If she is unmarried, the challenges are increased. Her singleness indicates she has rejected or has been rejected by her mate. Yet she is raising children who will become mates. Beyond her door, all authority is in the hands of people who do not look or think or act like her and her children.
The heartbreaking tenderness of Black women and their majestic strength speak of the heroic survival of a people who were stolen into subjugation, denied chastity, and refused innocence.
The wise woman thinks twice and speaks once or, better yet, does not speak at all.
The woman who survives intact and happy must be at once tender and tough. She must have convinced herself, or be in the unending process of convincing herself, that she, her values, and her choices are important. In a time and world where males hold sway and control, the pressure upon women to yield their rights-of-way is tremendous. And it is under those very circumstances that the woman’s toughness must be in evidence.
We may act sophisticated and worldly but I believe we feel safest when we go inside ourselves and find home, a place where we belong and maybe the only place we really do.
