(The Tale of a Southern Belle in Mississippi)
As I watched my love give birth to the seed of her rapist, I felt my heart churning and pumping its hatred to every section of my body. That hatred sizzled on my heart like melting butter to a hot skillet. My heart disease spoke to my love through the fire that shot out of my eyes. The duct tape covering her sweet lips bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi. That butter, that hate oozed out of my pores as I tried to hold myself together, while listening to God and Lucifer negotiate. I watched my love cry as that butter, that hate, turned into confusion. Was she crying because of the pain, or the pain of being a woman with no voice? I knew that she would never do this to me, but how could I? She had no voice. Her sweet lips were sealed by that cheap duct tape that bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi. Those lustful red artificial lips told me that she was a temptress, a controller of man’s burning desire to unlatch her chastity belt, and a ruler of herself.
I know my love! I know those sweet lips beyond that duct tape; beyond those lustful red lips. I am sure about one thing. She is the ruler of herself. Those sweet lips promised me that God and I were the only men that she would ever love. God and I were the only men worthy enough to touch her delicate skin. I am a great man with great power. I chose her, because of her greatness and power, but someone has silenced her. Someone has taken her womanhood and sealed her lips so that she may not tell a soul. Who do I blame for my confusion? Who do I blame for my battle between my love and hate for this woman? Who do I blame for the battle between grudge and forgiveness? Is it the man that took her womanhood or the man that took her voice? Are they one in the same? Is the rapist the same man who makes the laws?
This man or these men have managed to turn my most prized possession—my Southern Belle—into a lowly black slave of the former south. Her only duty is to please me! She has no control over her body. She cannot do anything without my say so. This is not the woman I fell in love with! The woman I know is strong, intelligent, and capable of making her own decisions. I am not worthy of making decisions about a body I did not create and a body that is not mine. I am only the lover of her soul. Right now I hate this thing that is exiting her wound; this thing that has no relation to me. This thing can only be a painful memory of a marriage torn apart by man’s lack of control of his sexual aggression, but his willingness to control his female counterpart by stamping laws on her reproductive organs.
As I stood up to see my love in pain—attempting to scream through that cheap duct tape that bore the artificial red lips of a lustful woman in Mississippi—that butter inside of me began to fry. Suddenly my mind began to take over my heart. “I am a Southern Gentleman! I am the epitome of a man, husband, and father. My duty is to protect everything that I love, especially my woman.” I walked over to the side of the hospital bed and ripped that cheap duct tape off of her lips and she screamed! I heard her voice! She cried out to me! She cried out to other women! At that moment, the butter inside of me had turned itself into nothing. It left a glow in my heart that seeped through my skin. I could not live with hate and not have my love! I promised her that I would protect her even if it meant losing my own life. I was determined to fight this man who had three heads. He was a rapist, law maker, and a Christian when it was convenient.
This child is not mine, but he is not to blame for the problems in a world that he has not yet seen. I will love him. He was born of a law that forced my love into slavery, but I will make sure he is the last. You see, there is a young girl next door who just found out that she was pregnant, but her mother doesn’t know that it is her father’s seed.