Molasses and African American Women

Linda Orji — Thu, 26 Apr 2018 01:54:07 +0000

Molasses — thick, dark brown syrup obtained from raw sugar during the refining process…

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Yes, the way my mind is set up I really did wonder what would happen if ALL African American women could reflect molasses? What do I mean by this? Well, what if we all formed a thick texture between us from our brown beautiful sweet melanin, raw strength, and mentality? Imagine the number of people we could feed and delicacies we could create when all the impurities and unwanted elements are removed.

Yesterday I had an encounter with an African American woman who was so bitter that she could not even accept a compliment from myself to her. I acknowledged her beauty and complimented on her job well done with raising her children as they were very respectful and kind toward me. She disregarded my compliments and continued to complain about her issues. I listened to her as she spoke and threw subliminal shade toward me while at the same time stating, “I have nothing against you.” This woman had become so blinded and manipulated by her own pain that she believed it was healing her. Ouch! Now, please know that I can only recognize this because I am a retired master of it. I used to be her. I was good at not seeing the God in the good but seeing the enemy in the good. I trained my mind to believe that everyone who came my way for good was after something else. This came from years of being hurt and lied to by others. I held on to the baggage. It piled up and eventually weighed on me so much I had no choice but to get rid of it.

After we finished speaking, I was upset. Not because she didn’t say thank you or because she threw so much shade my way but because this is my sister, granted I don’t know her at all but she’s another woman whose roots stem from the same continent as me. Then I wondered, how can we love our children enough to raise them but not love ourselves enough to let go of past pain for their sake? Isn’t the weight of jealousy too much? Aren’t we tired of dragging envy everywhere?

We are living in a world full of mental and physical shackles, how is it that we African American women are not looking out for each other more than what we are? I found my answers to those questions once again within in the word molasses, however this time I dug deeper into the history of it.

“Sugar’s most bitter legacy is that the labor of slaves caused the enslavement of even more Africans.”

– Jean M. West, Sugar and Slavery

You see where I’m headed with this whole molasses thing? Sugar which is sweet represents us African American women. Molasses which is sweet and thick in texture represents African American women united. Our most bitter legacy is the labor of slavery. This bitterness we carry is part of our legacy or history. So much so it runs through our genes which explains why it flows from us so naturally?

At the beginning of this blog post, I introduced the idea of re-defining how we treat each other by defining the unity of African American women through the definition of molasses. In the end, I explained the reason for the lack of unity of African American women through the history of molasses.

The goal is that you never look at molasses and African American women the same again. That every time you see or hear the word molasses, you think of an African American woman’s sweet texture and shackled history. Understand that although it is a choice for us to treat each other kindly we must over stand the years of hurt that we are against. It is not easy for every one of us to step into that thick texture of brown beautiful sweet melanin, raw strength, and mentality.

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It’s moments like the one that happened yesterday that make me appreciate being part of an empowering women’s group where the love is genuine. There is no hate or shade and our mission is to genuinely love and inspire other women to break the years of enslavement of our natural pure molasses.

February 24, 2018 The leading women of Empowerment Palace (left to right): Kimberly Moore, Diane McArthur, Annisha Timmons, Linda Orji, Veronica Jamison, Erica Malachi, Marie’ya Gary, Alicia Price Photo Cred: Cease the Moment Photography

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Hero-in Harlem

Linda Orji — Mon, 13 Feb 2017 06:11:59 +0000

Throwback Thursday I

Took me some time to get started on this post. I knew what I wanted to write about but didn’t necessarily know how I was going to tap into that place. So I’m writing my Throwback Thursday on a Sunday night or early Monday morning rather. That’s life right? Everything doesn’t always happen how you envision it. I’m sure when my grandfather was growing up he didn’t see himself dying on an autumn day in August of 1976 in his Harlem apartment, from heroin overdose.

Ever since I learned that piece of information I’ve watched several documentaries and biopics about notorious drug king pins like; Bumpy Johnson aka the “Harlem Godfather”, Frank Lucas, and of course the “Mr. Untouchable” Nicky Barnes, founder of one the largest heroin trade organizations in NYC.

I gather based on the rapid influence heroin had on the inner NYC communities back in the 1970’s especially Harlem, I am not the only person who ponders over its gruesome effects on close family members. What a difference a few decades makes right? Harlem went from moving artistic heroes like Countee Cullen and Louis Armstrong to molding community heroes whose heroin flowed through veins like water and nostrils like oxygen. The New Negro Movement became:

Pregnant mothers fiending for another hit.

Spoons being lit…

with fire.

Naked women packing…

small plastic bags, while wearing masks and do-rags.

Drug lords pushing the potent product out to the masses,

while overused veins and an overworked heart collapses.

Every time I watch American Gangster I think of my grandfather’s life. Could it have been Frank Lucas’s famous Blue Magic that put my grandfather’s heart on overload, causing it to stop forever? Could he have been one of those buyers in the car?

Truth is I will never know. All I am left with is history and my infinite imagination. But what I do know is Black History is not just a month, its a lifestyle. It’s Harlem. It’s my grandfather. It’s where we’ve been and where we’re going. And although I never met him, he is and forever will be my Hero-in Harlem.