They used to stop us.

Said it was dangerous for a girl to know too much.

Said softness and silence were enough.

That the pen didn’t suit our hands

and the book would spoil our minds.

We weren’t allowed to read.

Not out loud.

Not alone.

Not in front of men who feared being outgrown.

They hid the letters.

Told us wisdom belonged to them—

told us we were better off with our heads bowed,

our mouths shut,

our eyes trained on soup pots and needlework.

But we were watching.

We always were.

Learning in the corners,

sounding out syllables in the dark,

memorizing receipts and recipes,

repeating what the teachers said to our brothers

after the doors were closed.

We learned anyway.

---

Now look.

The world has turned.

And we’re the ones reading.

Reading contracts.

Reading prescriptions.

Reading between the lines.

We’re filling out the forms,

signing our names,

double-checking the fine print

before a man loses the land his grandfather left him.

We’re answering the questions

at the immigration office,

at the bank,

at the school,

while the man beside us shrugs and looks away

because reading is not his thing.

He could have learned.

He still can.

But he won’t.

Because now,

somewhere deep inside,

he believes it’s a woman’s job to know everything.

---

And maybe he’s right.

Not because it should be.

But because we made sure it could be.

Because someone had to know how to spell “eviction.”

How to read the water meter.

How to follow the dosage.

How to keep the children from being tricked.

We weren’t allowed to read.

Now we’re the only ones who do.

And while they fumble with pride,

dragging their heels through a world built on paperwork and passwords,

we're the ones holding the ink.

We used to be punished for knowing.

Now we’re punished for being the only ones who do.

But still,

we read.

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I never understood it.

The obsession.

The way some women light up over stories of boys loving boys.

It always felt strange to me—foreign, distant, not my thing.

And then it hit me.

Because when a man loves another man, he becomes safe to you.

Still a man.

But not dangerous.

Not taking.

Not looming.

Not asking you to be smaller so he can feel taller.

He doesn’t want anything from you—

and he’s not trying to be you either.

He just is.

Fully expressed. Playful. Soft. Capable of affection without strings, attention without expectations.

The kind of man who’ll spill the tea, cry with you,

dance with you,

and slap another man and a woman for you—

all before brunch.

You see the kind of man you’ve been waiting for

in a love story that isn’t yours.

And that realization splits you open.

Because suddenly you’re not swooning—you’re grieving.

Not just the safety,

but the access.

The joke you were never let in on.

The ease you were never offered.

The man you might have loved

if only he didn’t need you to hurt first.

It’s infuriating.

To know men can be whole—

they just won’t do it for you.

They become beautiful

when you’re not in the way.

And so you watch.

And ache.

And laugh alongside them

because it’s the closest you’ve come

to being loved by a man

who sees you

and doesn’t flinch.

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There was no mailbox.

No red flag.

No uniformed stranger with a whistle in his chest and a schedule in his hand.

There was Mr. Johnson.

Or Ms. Marie.

Or whichever utility worker drew the short straw that month and got promoted to “bill delivery expert” —

a title earned not with training,

but with an intimate knowledge of the island

and at least one auntie on every corner.

We didn’t do mail here.

Not in the way Americans imagine it.

No paper trail. No organized system.

Just a Ford truck with questionable brakes,

and someone yelling “Check ya porch!”

as they hurled a BPL bill under your shutters

like divine judgment.

If they didn’t know your name,

they knew your cousin’s.

If they didn’t know your house,

they knew where your mother used to live

before she moved in with that man from Andros.

That was enough.

They’d wedge water bills in jalousie windows,

tuck final notices under conch shells on the step,

and if you weren’t home,

they might just leave it by your neighbor’s mango tree.

You’d still get it.

Eventually.

Especially if the lights went off.

We weren’t mailing letters.

We were delivering debt wrapped in island efficiency —

part oral tradition, part coconut telegraph.

A system built not on addresses,

but on relationships.

Ask any Bahamian how we got our mail before the digital age

and we’ll probably blink a few times,

tilt our head,

and say:

“Well... it used to just show up.”

Delivered by someone’s uncle,

who knew your business

better than Google ever could.

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Some days, my thighs are in an underground cage match.

No ref.

No rules.

Just unprovoked violence.

They’re fighting for dominance like one’s trying to prove it’s the “better leg.”

I am but the referee, flinching with every step.

Meanwhile, I’ve been telling myself I’m not fat—I’m just composed.

Thick with thoughts.

Heavy with potential.

Balanced, like my diet...

which includes ice cream as the calcium-rich, dairy-adjacent, self-soothing supplement it was clearly meant to be.

But here’s where it all comes undone:

Some medieval gentleman from the era of corsets and fainting couches

apparently taught the modern male species

to hold the door open from inside the frame.

Sir.

Why are you in the doorway?

Why is your body parallel with mine?

Why must we share a moment

every time I try to enter a building?

Why do I have to breathe in your morning cologne

and lightly graze your chest like a timid first kiss?

Why is this a make-out session

I’ve been avoiding on purpose

by not choosing to date for the past 10 years?

I didn’t ask for eye contact.

I didn’t sign the consent form for this architectural seduction.

I’m just trying to get through the door,

not the stages of intimacy.

Not to brush clavicles with a stranger who thinks chivalry means

turning an exit into an experience.

And now I have the added responsibility

of faking a smile

and coquettishly saying thank you—

like I enjoyed the chest-to-chest communion

and would recommend it to a friend.

Move, sir.

Step aside with the grace God intended when He created vestibules.

Put the door all the way open, sir.

And back away like the gentleman your mother hoped for.

Because I’m already fighting myself.

My thighs are in the 12th round.

And now I gotta add you to the list of obstacles between me and my next socially acceptable breath.

---

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I ate chicken wings and chuckled.

Because chicken wings were once slave food.

Back when the “good cuts” went to the master’s table,

and we were left with scraps, bones, and bruises.

But survival makes artists out of the desperate.

We seasoned struggle, fried it crisp,

and turned into a delicacy

what was meant to mock us

The audacity—

for him to look over,

see us not just surviving

but thriving 

licking our fingers in joy—

and decide he wants that too.

So now the wing has been elevated.

High-priced.

Artisan.

Deli meat for the gentrified.

Bar food for the hip.

Instagram-famous.

You need a small loan to eat what once got laughed off the plate.

The poor man can no longer afford

what he created to survive.

Because even joy seasoned with hardship

had to be taken too.

You know it’s petty

when food is involved.

For the search bar warriors:

This post dives into the history of chicken wings, exploring how chicken wings were originally slave food and became a popular American delicacy. It discusses how enslaved people turned discarded food into flavorful meals and how cultural appropriation of Black food traditions has led to the gentrification of chicken wings. Topics include the rising cost of chicken wings, how food that was once cheap is now expensive, and how soul food has been co-opted by restaurants and deli culture. If you're interested in the cultural history of food, Black culinary innovation, or how slave food became gourmet, this post explains it all.

Some truths come tender. Others arrive shirtless and aggressive. This one needed both a poetic lens and a public service announcement. You’ll know which one by the end.

There is a sacredness to fabric.

A reverence in threads.

A ministry in even the humblest tank top

that keeps a man from crossing the invisible line

between shirtless and

naked-naked.

Not sensual.

Not sculptural.

Just… exposed.

Like he peeled his skin off with his hoodie

and forgot to tuck the humanity back in.

Some men carry their torsos like gospel—

a soft-spoken sermon of sun-kissed abs and quiet confidence.

Others?

They walk into frame with no shirt and no shame,

glowing like uncooked chicken

and flesh-lit trauma.

And we are not okay.

It’s not about lust.

It’s not even about decency.

It’s about visual consent.

The silent agreement that when you enter the chat,

you will not look

like an anatomy textbook

just opened to the muscle fibers

without warning.

I once loved a man like this—

beautiful in face, in spirit, in voice.

But the second that shirt came off,

my soul recoiled

like it had been shown something

unhealable.

He didn’t need judgment.

He needed intervention.

So I praised the fabric.

I left glowing comments on cotton appearances.

I cheered for linen.

I whispered sweet affirmations to every stitched sleeve,

hoping they’d stay loyal.

Because listen—

when your chest tone

looks like trauma in 4K,

when your nipples scream

“I’m unseasoned but emotionally raw,”

then yes, sir,

I need you to put it back on.

Let there be cotton.

Let there be mercy.

Let there be modesty

for the mole-rat-shouldered men

who mean well

but forgot

that not every torso was meant for

daylight.

And if you see me in the comments,

applauding a tasteful hoodie?

Just know—

I am doing the Lord’s work.

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We are told to celebrate everyone. Everything. Every choice, expression, and performance. But what happens when applause becomes expected instead of earned? What if valuing someone’s freedom doesn’t mean turning their every act into a movement?

This piece explores the tension between honoring individuality and maintaining our right to quiet discernment—without shame, without spectacle.

—·—·—

We live in a world that praises visibility.

To be seen is often equated with being respected.

To be loud is mistaken for being valid.

But there’s a quiet truth we don’t say often enough:

I can value your existence

without endorsing your performance of it.

Individuality matters.

It’s what makes human beings beautiful—our quirks, our contrasts, our soft rebellions.

But somewhere along the line, celebrating difference became obligation.

To approve, to affirm, to clap.

Not just when it’s earned or moves us—but always.

And yet… isn’t it possible

to believe in someone’s right to be

without having to center it?

You can dress how you like.

Love who you love.

Move through the world in whatever way feels true to your insides.

But I don’t owe your every gesture a standing ovation.

Not because I hate it—

but because not everything personal is universal.

Not every performance is art.

Not every statement needs a stage.

Some things are best lived quietly.

Fully.

Honestly.

But without demand.

We forget that freedom works both ways.

You are free to live your truth.

And I am free to not make it mine.

That’s not hatred.

That’s boundary.

And maybe the world would feel gentler

if we made more space for complexity—

for honoring each other

without needing to mirror each other.

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