Her was not half white pretty, she was in his image and tasting of God…her lips smelled innocent. Her personality went smoothly down my throat as I came to love the idea of her. Her laughter would trickle down the front of my spine and grace my awareness.
But, He being unmoving in his lust and quiet appreciation, for she just WAS black and God had made this woman to absorb his love- would have no one else. Her skin took the shape of silence, as though an abyss had cloaked her frame. But I exaggerate, for the blackness I speak of is not her complexion. Her knowledge of Black and love of heritage would exceed her appearance. I sat facing the back of her head, the front of the church preceding me. Blue-skinned mamas whooping at the presence of GOD and old women holding smelling salts wrapped in white cloth tucked beneath their noses calmed their abiding souls. The Spirit had tasted this air and we, hurting souls had felt He here. Gospel music rinsing down the sides of my arms and skin, me was made aware. The sanctity of this place was crawling up and down my eyes, I witnessing the residue of indigenous Africans.This piece was by Alice Walker, specifically her church scene in The Color Purple. In a perfect world, any one of my written works would achieve the depth and beauty of this book--it basically tackles a multitude of black cultural pathologies, celebrations, sexual taboos and triumph-- one can only hope.
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