I don’t want to be a white man because I love being a black woman. However…

I have committed myself to moving like one.

I walk with big, explorer of the world steps. I stand chest open, arms crossed at my breasts or on my hips and shouders rolled back. When I sit, I spread out until I am comfortable. I take up space–in lines, in stores, in parking lots. I speak with bass in my voice, my words weighty and full up with authority–I know what I’m talking about. I don’t monitor my volume or curb my laughter. I allow my annoyance to dance across my face when my concentration is broken. I forget to acknowledge the humanity that encompasses me because my own humanity is much too important to me to worry about yours. I cut in front; I don’t always see you standing there. I often forget to say “good morning” or “hello” or “excuse me” unless you’re someone who has something that I need or simply want or unless you have access to clout that I can use later.

Okay. I’m engaging in hyperbole a bit. Not all white men, alright? And I am certainly not rude–my grandmother would die of shame after she killed me with her words of saved Southern reproach.

I guess the point I am making is that I move as though I am worthy. I intentionally approach every moment with the fullness of my value–perceived or otherwise.

And you will deal.

Seriously, tho. You should try it. The level of shock on the faces of my melanin-deficient brethren and sistren is totes worth the switch from being double conscienced to fully inhabiting one’s self. Get into it.

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