It has been a struggle to find the words

To explain what that Black woman

in that White House

Has meant to me

But as I keep digging toward the bottom of my heart

In search for words

I push past her 2017 look

And her fake lashes

I push past her bangs and silk press,

And her flips of old

Digging for something that looks more tangible to others.

I push past the first time I realized

Michelle had a big ol' booty

That made me rejoice

And look back at mine

But that made white America squirm and frown.

I push past her side eye at that husband of hers

Taking selfies at Mandela's funeral

And making him switch seats because

He forgot where he was

And who he was

And who SHE was

for a moment

And the Black mama in her

Wasn't about to be embarrassed that day.

I dig past the first time I saw her on live TV

Wearing a black and red dress

Taking the stage with her brown baby girls

with their Easter Sunday curls

on a Tuesday night in November.

I remember the way her long, long brown legs

And the shine on them

Like she had just finished up throwing on some shea butter back stage.

I remember having my breath taken away

By her

In that dress

By him

in that moment.

I dig past the memory of

Holding my breath,

Praying that he wasn't shot as he gave his victory speech

Tearfully praying that she wasn't thinking the same thing.

I dig past images of

Forehead kisses

A thousand gorgeous ball gowns

Walking from Marine One

And photos of her

Walking with two tall, graceful young women

Cut from the same cloth as their mother

To a photo of Malia holding a campaign sign

And Michelle holding little Sasha in her arms,

Looking exhausted and reluctant but still

Campaigning for him

Because she supported him

And loved him.

She believed in him.

I keep digging past magazine covers

Raving at her toned biceps

How you can get yours to look just like them!

And how she needs to cover up.

Her giving terrorist fist bumps to her Muslim husband

How she is actually a man

Tricking us all because

No Black woman could be so strong

And so smart

And so accomplished

And look the President of these here United States in the eye

The way she does.

I keep digging.

I think I'm near the bottom

Of this heart of mine

But not yet.

I come upon the way her husband looks at her

In a room stuffed with thousands of people

With millions more watching at home.

A look,

With damp eyes,

That almost makes you feel uncomfortable

Because somehow,

Its turned into a private moment

With 25 years of late night whispers

Wiped tears

Laughs

Reassurance

Uncertainty

Fear

Love

And there, oh.

There.

At the bottom of my very heart

With her face plastered on it

Is hope.

Asia Renée is an activist, mom of two and lactation counselor. Her passions include reproductive justice, dismantling white supremacy and patriarchy while reveling in the sisterhood that is #blackgirlmagic. She writes poetry at blackwomangaze.wordpress.com and is chief editor of The Conscious Parent Collective (consciousparentcollective.com), a place for all to find resources and advice for raising socially conscious children. 

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