You judge a woman by the length of her skirt, by the way she walks, talks, looks, and acts; by the color of her skin you judge and will call her "bitch!" "Black bitch!" if she doesn't answer your: "Hey baby, whatcha gonna say to a man." You judge a woman by the job she holds, by the number of children she's had, by the number of digits on her check; by the many men she may have lain with and wonder what jive murphy you'll run on her this time. You tell a woman every poetic love line you can think of, then like the desperate needle of a strung out junkie you plunge into her veins, travel wild through her blood, confuse her mind, make her hate and be cold to the men to come, destroying the thread of calm she held. You judge a woman by what she can do for you alone but there's no need for slaves to have slaves. You judge a woman by impressions you think you've made. Ask and she gives, take without asking, beat on her and she'll obey, throw her name up and down the streets like some loose whistle -- knowing her neighbors will talk. Her friends will chew her name. Her family's blood will run loose like a broken creek. And when you're gone, a woman is left healing her wounds alone. But we so called men, we so called brothers wonder why it's so hard to love our women when we're about loving them the way america loves us.

 

 

	"Conditions XXI" © 1986,1996, 2002 by Essex Hemphill This piece originally appeared as "To Some Supposed Brothers," and was republished as part of a larger poem cycle, in Essex Hemphill's book, Conditions (Washington, D.C.: BeBop Books, 1986). Reprinted here by permission of the author, the Frances Goldin Literary Agency, and the Hemphill family. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
	Original Graphics © 2002 by Emmanuela Copal de León, based on an original photo, "Erika," by Toni Long. Photo first published in STANDARDS V5N1.

 

 

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