I saw my beautiful sister’s picture on Facebook yesterday. She’d attended some event, somewhere. She was HUGE. 5′ 4″ and pushing 2 and a quarter, maybe more, her features bloated, her smile distorted, the tears of a clown – streaming through the digital capture – when no one’s around.

What has to occur – in the heart, in the soul, in the spirit – in order to go from a size 6 to a size 26? And be comfortable with it, pretend that its cute, sexy, pretend that you are owning your girth and somehow, that is a virtue???

My other sister, a carbon copy, feigns acceptance of her fate…or is it resignation?

During the ’60’s and 70’s, both of these intelligent women wore the hell out of their Super ‘Fros, proudly, fiercely as did many beautiful sisters. I sat looking at previews of the film, “Good Hair” starring Chris Rock, saw the scene where Hollywood starlets admitted their use of weaves, bugged my eyes out at the aluminum can disintegrating in a vat of the product black women put on their hair — and into their brains and body!!

What kind of beating does one have to take, psychically, in order to become complicit in their poisoning, their burning and scarring, their embalming…

Their degradation?

I wanted to pick up the phone and I may yet still and scream at my sister, ask her if she does not see the squandering of her youth, her beauty, her health. Our family grew up playing tennis, so getting and staying in shape comes naturally. Becoming a human pinata is the most unnatural of behaviors.

Why and why do we lie about it?  Why do we kill and degrade ourselves and make friends with that degradation, that lie? Don’t even mention what KIND of food we eat to get the way that we are, food processed, genetically engineered, Stepford food, robotic, food made for human doings, not beings.

Take back your hair, your dignity, your self respect. Look in the mirror and see the rolls of fat as a crime, and yourself as an accessory to that crime and vow to do community service on your own damaged self.

Kick your chicken bone, relaxer, hot comb, chittlin’, Colt 45 – drug habit that you shake, sweat and sniffle over. We need rehabs for both gorging ourselves on bad food and the self-mutilation that we engage in every time a sister – or a brotha – gets a perm.

PERM? Like the Department of “Defense”, a perm aint nothing but another delicious delusion that tells us, that black is white and night is day.  Problem is, the perm also tells us that IT &  WE are beautiful while we’re wearing that garbage when it is the antithesis of beauty.

Beauty is what you had before they laid the conk on you in the barber’s chair…

And its what God gave you.

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