can our broken pieces ever be whole?

for the sake of the argument, i am a black woman.  i feel like i've met all the requirements on both sides of the spectrum. single parent household in the south bronx. went to a great high school. went to an amazing college.  dropped out.  became a single mom at nineteen. went back to school. managed to get two degrees and a bunch of loans. somebody stole my identity and disrespected my credit.  that pretty much rounds out most of the stereotypes - good and bad, if a stereotype can ever be good.

i say all that to say that i have an issue as a black woman that frightens me! letting a man take care of me is a foreign concept to me.  and i'm definitely not one of those women who don't want that. i love the black man, unconditionally. i just don't know if i'm up for letting him love me.  it's not an easy concept to swallow.  after fighting so hard to even earn the right to compete [emotionally, socially, academically, professionally, athletically], i find myself having to consciously decide that i will let him in a space i've reserved only for myself.  i've noticed that i admire the black man from afar but as far as letting him into my home? i'm not entirely comfortable with that. i've never had the black man in my home long enough for me to believe he is capable of being a consistent fixture in my life and the life of my/our offspring.  how can i trust someone i've never known?

as a black woman, i've been the head of household for the last 400 years.  i've been violated, humiliated and ignored since the day i was brought to these unfamiliar shores. even when men tore my legs open to taste the rivers of my Nile, it wasn't considered rape until the 70s.  they took my children from my breast and my man from my bed with no room for grief.  i had to feed pinks lips with my white milk, watching pale cheeks blush with the nutrients intended for a working child.  instead of picking up the shattered pieces of my humanity, i had to pick cotton. i had to pick sugar cane; sugar cane whose sweetness turned bitter under the cold sun of slavery. i had no one to hold me to reassure me that things would turn out for the best. i had no one to place comfort on my lips and make it love.

so now, when i see black men in suits and ties, i admire my continent's adonis.  finally he can stand upright but it will take time for me to stand beside him.  i can raise him, i have raised him but after all this time of being alone, his touch still scares me.  maybe i'm afraid that if i get used to him, life will snatch him from the palm of my hands like so many times before.  i love the black man unconditionally. whether he's my son or my husband, i have to learn how to be by his side because the world has already turned its back.