"My first feminists lived on 131st street in Kinsmen
in Cleveland, sported big Bengal hoop earrings,
fly feathered dos with tails in back,
and freshly-pressed Sergio Valentes for picture day.
Nobody tried to quiet they voice.
No one could misinterpret head angled
on a down slope, four finger pointing up
as a home girl say, um excuse you, you best be stepping off.
Off the runways of the ghetto, they
were the women I wanted to be, with names, like Lanita,
Jerita, Shandra, and Monique.
These cornrow, fake Louis Vuitton, big booty wearing,
great blow pop smacking, kick ball playing,
wash cars on Saturday, black and proud,
spitting out "nigga pleases" and "sho' you rights"
like it ain't a thing.
My name is Keisha, yeah, they call me Boo.
Yeah, I am a Leo.
Yeah, my man is Desi.
Yeah, let's set it out.
You were the women, could have been from anywhere, cute, cool,
and conversating on classroom corners as street
lamps heat much Jheri curl juice to the sounds of my Adidas.
Defining youselves with might on tones,
and traditions of Davis, Giovanni, and Shange.
You were the women, the women I wanted to be,
owning your world, double Dutching into tomorrow.
These words stand on playgrounds in your memory,
may your ears rock to their beat."
[APPLAUSE]
Can everyone hear all right?
OK, great.