By Bell Hooks
During this vintage examine, cultural critic bell hooks examines how black ladies, from the 17th century to the current day, have been and are oppressed through either white males and black males and via white ladies. Illustrating her research with relocating own bills, Ain't I a lady is deeply severe of the racism inherent within the considered many middle-class white feminists who've didn't handle problems with race and sophistication. whereas acknowledging the clash of loyalty to race or intercourse remains to be a issue, hooks demanding situations the view that race and gender are separate phenomena, insisting that the struggles to finish racism and sexism are inextricably intertwined.
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Extra resources for Aint I a Woman (Pluto Classics)
I'm paid two hundred grand to pick up a red telephone anytime & call up God. I'm making tobacco pouches out of the breasts of Indian maidens so we can stand in a valley & watch grass grow. Membrane. This precious, white ceramic doll's brain twisted out of a knob of tungsten. It bleeds a crooked smile & arsenic sizzles in the air. Its eyes an old lie. Its bogus tongue, Le Diable. Its lampshade of memory. Guilt yahoos, benedictions in its Cro-Magnon skull blossom, a flurry of fireflies, vowels of rattlesnake beads.
Rabbits Learned how to make hunters Shoot at spiders when headlighting. A squirrel played trickster On the low branches Till we were our own targets. Served On chipped, hand-me-down Willow-patterned plates. We weren't poor. Sometimes We weighed the bullet In our hands, tossing it left To right, wondering if it was Worth more than the kill. But after forty years At the tung oil mill, coughing up old dust, He only talked butter beans & okra. He moved like a sand crab. Born half-broken, he'd say If I didn't have this bad leg I'd break ground to kingdom come.
He raises my clothes. An undertow drags me down. His mouth on mine, kissing my mother. Page 46 Apprenticeship His fingernails are black & torn from blows, as if the hammer declares its own angle of reference. " His girlfriend lowers her white dress, then moves away. She reappears nude, props one foot upon a red chair, looks him square in the eyes. Her skin glistens like a woman who's made love all afternoon. Twenty-two stories up, he steps out over the beams like a man with wings. Page 47 Light on the Subject Hello, Mister Jack The Ripper, come on in make yourself at home.