Whos Loving You

by Mary B. Morrison

  Who’s Loving You

  (poem)

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  I pray for someone to love me

  For me

  Throughout my day

  I search for love

  I look but cannot believe

  Again today I did not see

  Anyone with love in their eyes for me

  I notice one set of deep beautiful eyes

  And when they stared at mine

  Quickly I turn away

  Afraid to come face-to-face

  With love

  I lay awake at night

  Holding my pillow

  Longing for someone to appear

  Longing for someone who cares

  And when that person comes near

  Fear

  Takes over my body

  My mind

  My soul

  Beholding the pure essence

  Of what I desire

  To Love

  To be loved

  I wonder

  If they wonder

  Before we speak

  Who’s loving me

  I scream to the highest heights

  Send me love

  Clouds gather

  Rain pours

  I run for shelter

  Afraid to get wet

  Afraid to get hurt

  I try to figure out

  Without help from my mouth

  Do you have

  Or have you lost love

  And like me

  Do you long for a human touch

  That speaks to you

  Not with words

  With love

  Or a smile that brightens your day

  An unsolicited hug embraces your waist

  Or do you simply let your feelings

  Fade

  Into the sunset

  Hide behind the sunrise

  Day after day

  I kneel

  My hands press together

  My heart whispers

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  I pray for someone

  Anyone

  Just one

  To love me for me

  My prayers are answered

  You step into my light

  I hear your touch

  I feel your voice

  Love at last

  We laugh together

  We cry together

  Come rain or come shine

  We do everything together

  And one day

  Along the way

  We drift

  Love don’t love

  We’re back

  Where we started

  Now I lay me down to sleep

  I pray

  For someone…anyone

  To love me for me

  My eyes meet

  Anew

  We go our separate ways

  No longer together

  Forever

  Day after day

  I look around

  If only I could’ve found

  The words to say

  Baby please stay

  Hum

  Déjà vu

  I’ve been here before

  In my heart

  As I search for love

  Once more

  I wonder

  Who’s loving you

  And I no longer pray

  For someone to love

  I wish

  Where is the Black Love?

  Sometimes I wish I’d been an adult in the sixties, instead of being born about ten weeks after the Civil Rights Act was enacted on July 2, 1964, to establish the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which was supposed to enforce civil rights for blacks, which had been granted under two prior acts. I wish I’d been a woman when the majority of black men had been real men. The sixties were a time when blacks loved blacks, the best they knew how, despite the fact that white people hated blacks. Nowadays we don’t go out of our way to display affection.

  In the sixties, black men tipped their hats to black ladies, our men dressed impeccably, and they had pride. No, not pride…dignity, poise, and they never walked past black women without acknowledging them. “Yes, ma’am. No, sir,” black children would say to elders. The sixties were a time when women wore heels, gloves, and dresses, not jeans, T-shirts, flip-flops, or tennis shoes. A time when every black woman, irrespective of size, strutted down the street, swinging hips and flaunting attitude with confidence, stretching her head to the sky, knowing, not wondering, that she was a goddess. Black folk struggled together. Together. But they also partied and danced with so much fire and passion in their hearts, everyone could feel the energy in their kicks, high steps, fast swings in midair, and fancy splits down to the floor.

  I wish I were Madame C. J. Walker and my husband were a man like Malcolm X, a thinking man who wasn’t afraid to stand up and speak out for justice. Yeah, the sixties were a time when black folks fought, not begged, for equal opportunities. It was a time when the majority of black men upheld character, morals, and ethics, which were rooted in actions that exhibited and warranted respect for self, family, friends, and those not so friendly.

  Life ain’t never been fair for blacks, but almost fifty years ago, black women supported black men, not financially, but emotionally and spiritually. Back then the white man’s dollar couldn’t put a price on black love. Today it seems like the only way to get love among blacks is to barter, sometimes your soul.

  Does the character of one man beget the character of another? Because I’m wondering exactly when and why black men started disrespecting black women. Hell, when did black men start disrespecting their wives, their mothers, and degrading one another? Pulling triggers without a conscience…over what? The Eurocentric standards of success? This whole damn world is a mess. People lying, dying; babies and women crying and being raped; parents beating the kids; men assaulting women. Hatred and road rage have replaced love and respect. Black men, the most powerful race of men on earth, dead or alive, one by one, are vanishing into the meaningless unknown. But why?

  Once upon a time, people cared about the feelings lurking in the hearts and heads of loved ones who shared their bed, nestling between their legs, stimulating more than their erogenous zones. A house was a home, and no one who dwelled within was alone or lonely. Positive or negative, people were genuine, not fake. The greetings “How are you?” and “How was your day?” did not escape one’s lips without one pausing long enough not to listen, but rather to hear the answers. Men used to open doors and actually hold them open long enough for the women walking behind them to walk through without getting slammed in the face. Black men used to escort women on their arms with an unspoken self-awareness that told the world, “I’m her protector. I’m her man.” Today a black man seldom holds a black woman’s hand in public, in private, or after making love. If that’s what they still call it. Love.

  Nowadays, a lump forms in my throat and I choke on the infectious reality that most men care only about what’s between a woman’s legs and how fast they can slide into home plate and avoid taking her on a first date. Men make no concrete investment of their time, let alone their money, because today women generously pick up the tab. Madame C. J. Walker never would’ve done that, and Malcolm X never would’ve expected her to.

  Once upon a time, black men labored for their loved ones. Nowadays most men are so busy chasing a dollar, like a dog chasing its tail, that they consider slowing down long enough to love or commit to any black woman a chore or a setback. Every part of her mind, body, and soul becomes boring after he’s dripped his last drop of cum inside her womb. Once he’s done, in a random act of contrived kindness, he says “Baby, I’ll call you later.” He says this just in case he wants to stick his dick in her pussy, reload, then explode another load again and again.

  Boom!

  There was a time, five decades ago, seemingly not so long ago, when a man cared about his seed before ejaculating inside of a woman. And if he impregnated that woman, h
e asked her father for her hand in marriage, ensured food was on the table, the light bill was paid, and actually reared his children. “Boy, what did your mother say? Don’t make me take off this belt. You’d better listen to your mother, or you gon’ have to deal with me…with me, with me, with me.”

  Nowadays a black man will deny his seed, even if the child looks like he spit him out. Words roll off a black man’s tongue even when he cannot convince himself of his lie. He says, “That’s not my child,” or “How do I know for sure it’s mine?” That is, until Maury tells him, “You ARE the father!” Then he wants to shed tears until the credits finish rolling. Then once again…he’s fading back to black.

  For a moment the mother wonders if a ghost had screamed, “Whose pussy is this?” right before her man’s back tightened and his toes curled. She wouldn’t dare use the word spine. Nowadays most men don’t have one. They want all the perks, like free pussy; a complimentary hot meal; a cozy, warm bed in which to lay their head; a submissive woman to dump their problems on or invest in their dreams; and a few dollars in their pocket, irrespective of where the money came from and as long as they didn’t have to earn it.

  What’s their justification? “I can blow her back out like no other man can,” they say. Or laying claim to what they could never own, they say, “That’s my pussy. You hear me?” But if game doesn’t recognize game, she’ll only hear what he wants her to. She’ll do whatever he wants her to whenever he whispers, “I love you, boo.” Even if the words are a damn lie, she’ll cry for joy because she craves to be loved. She desperately wants to be held, if only for one night of pleasure, and her man trades places with the baby he left her to raise alone for the next eighteen plus years.

  Once upon a time, a man wanted to blow a woman’s mind. Tease her. Test her. See if she could conduct an intelligent conversation while holding his hand as they strolled together. He cared whether or not she had a strong head on her shoulders, because he didn’t want an unstable wife nurturing his children. Education was a priority, and dropping out of school wasn’t an option for a black man’s kids. Now, well, a black man cares more about whether a black woman can give good head than finding out if she’s got any degrees or asking his baby mama what his child needs.

  No shirt. No shoes. No diapers. No food. By nature a black man is a man, but he’s not man enough to handle his responsibilities. Say what? Give the money to his baby mama and let her get her hair done or buy food for some other man to eat? Owing to the fact that his baby’s mama looks better than she did when she was with him, he can’t see that his son never misses any of the meals he has neglected to pay for. But let a black man’s child become a millionaire from all the sleepless nights the child’s mother has invested, and a black man will stick his chest and hand out so far, his palm could go in his ass and come out the same mouth that denied the child was ever his.

  A man used to greet a woman with a smile; he’d introduce himself. He used to charm her for a while, but now that cell phones exist, he insists on getting her number before asking, “What’s your name? Are you married?” as if he honestly cared whether or not she had a husband at home or whether his wife or his babies’ mama was at home by herself, with their children.

  Men used to automatically pick up the tab, walk a woman to her front door, ask for a second date. A man would never invite himself into a woman’s home or stay too late without her explicit consent. Now men ask, “Where you live? I’ll be over. Got any good movies? What you gon’ cook? Got anything to drink?”

  Once upon a time, black men helped black men build character. Nowadays a black man’s mouth is synonymous with a slaughterhouse. He calls black women bitches and whores. Voluntarily, he puts his dignity on a chopping board. Fuck you, trick. Bam! Balling up his fists and hurling punches at his black woman is his way of proving his manhood. The subliminal, and sometimes overt, degradation of a black woman makes him stand tall. The smaller he can make her feel, the less of a curve he has in his spineless spine as he lies to her face repeatedly.

  Maybe it’s just me, y’all. But has any woman met a black man with character lately? My frame of reference is predominantly black men, so I can’t honestly speak about other races. Even though I’m fed up with black men, I haven’t given up on the black men that do have character. I may be talking about your daddy or a black man you’ve dated or even the one you’re with. Does he show you that he loves you? If so, how?

  I know a few wonderful men and I’ve listed some of them in my dedication and acknowledgments. From celebrities to ordinary guys, the real men must be on sabbatical or on vacation or missing with no action, or maybe they’re all dead or simply afraid to do the right things. Seriously, I understand that there’s a plethora of reasons why it is sometimes difficult for a black man to do right by a black woman, even if she is the one supporting him.

  Given the abuses of sorry-ass, need-to-have-their-badges-taken-away police officers and racist, pathetic district attorneys, who have more dysfunctional issues than the average black man; racial profiling; and an injustice system that locks a black man up ten times longer and a hundred times faster than a white man for committing the same crimes or, in some cases, for committing no crime at all, equal rights need to be reinstated like black men need to renew their marital vows to their wives, immediately.

  After making a quick dollar off of the white man’s drugs; or dressing up in a designer suit, trying to quietly fit in; or dangling gold chains or flashing gold teeth or rolling in luxury cars just to get women or damn…the list in my head of how white society plots and plans the demise and genocide of the black man is endless. I know that every black man is constantly pressured in hopes that he’ll snap. And when a good black man gives up on himself, the people who are hurt the most are the black women who are left alone to do it all by themselves, his kids, and the entire black community.

  Society perpetuates the notion that it’s easier for a black man to do what’s wrong. I disagree, because by nature, even the black man on the corner, selling drugs, in his heart wants to do what is right. Black men don’t want to leave their wives or their baby mamas at home with the kids while they roam the streets, searching for new pussy that’s really only new to them. But a black man stares a woman in the eye without blinking. His rehearsed script rolls off of his tongue. “You know I want you, girl. But we can’t be together right now. I told you I have a wife.” He makes the word wife synonymous with the recent purchase of a new pair of shoes.

  Well, whosoever wrote those lame-ass civil rights acts of 1957, 1960, and 1964 needs their ass kicked for lying to black men and women. Because thanks to society, when the curtains close, what we truly have is an audience filled with lonely, emotionally castrated black women and characterless black men, waiting to perform the next act just in case their shallowness, their inconsiderate ways, their lies, and their alibis weren’t convincing enough the first several times around.

  But what are black women thinking when they watch this cast of characters, these pretenders who say, without any forethought, “I want you to have my baby.” When black men are not required to show up and be accounted for as real men with character, why do black women spread their legs, share their bed, give their money, and freely hand them their hearts?

  Could it be that most black women are clueless? How can a black woman not know her self-worth? I bet that Harriet Tubman is firing gunshots in the air all around Heaven right now, wondering why in the hell black folks are turning their backs on one another.

  Black, white, or other, most women have no idea how they deserve to be treated. Maybe they’re living a life like their mothers or choosing men like the fathers who never loved their mothers. Or perhaps, just perhaps, most black women don’t know the meaning of the word character. Even worse, some women don’t care about a man’s character as long as his dick can stroke deep enough to make them forget that he doesn’t give a fuck about them.

  Lights. Camera. Silence.

  Action speaks louder
than words. At the end of the journey, when the curtains close and the show is over, very few lovers can whisper in the other one’s ear, “I love you,” and mean it. How can one love a person they don’t know? How can any man or woman love another person without first loving themselves?

  How can true love exist when a man’s character is absent?

  LACONNIE TAYLOR-JONES

  Who’s Loving You

  It was 1975 and my freshmen year in high school.

  Beads of sweat settled like raindrops on my nose as I dashed around a new school on a humid day in August, trying to locate my first period physics class. When I finally showed up ten minutes late, my greatest fear as I strolled inside the huge, auditorium-style room filled with mostly juniors and seniors should’ve been whether the instructor would allow me entrance. Instead, my biggest concern was inconspicuously finding someplace to sit. Scanning the room, I spotted a solitary desk in the rear. Once I settled in, I glanced to my left and saw a brother with a shy smile, wire-rimmed glasses, and one of the toughest Afros I’d ever seen. He smiled at me. Fate intervened again, because he was also in my fourth period advanced math class. Over the school year, I learned a great deal about the person I initially considered a nerd.

  By all accounts, he could have so easily been lumped in the category our society preserves for black males that are fatherless and raised by single mothers—most likely not to succeed. Yet, he defied all the odds.

  Every day, I’m grateful to that middle-school teacher who had the unmitigated gall to tell this man-child to his face that black folks, and especially black men, didn’t have the intelligence or the discipline to become engineers. Whether that statement inspired my man to achieve—he delivered the valedictorian address to his senior class in 1975 and subsequently received a full scholarship to one of the top engineering schools in the country, earning a chemical engineering degree with honors—I’ll never know.