Black Pomegranate
Fall 2021, Cap Skirring. Hot sand sifted between my toes and the waves whispered lust in my ear, the water called me back. Diapered-children ran by and men, locked in togetherness, played soccer. I wanted so badly to join them, to feel at one with my homeland, but the distance between them and I felt as far as it did at home. I connected with the street cats instead. The rabid, gentle cats with a violent need to protect and survive. They laid in the shade surrounded by trash, old clothing, and rotten fruit. Feelings of anger and resentment rushed, loud, to the forefront of my mind. I tried to figure out solutions to the grand colonization problem that reveals itself in every setting I step in. My booming thoughts met a decrescendo when I looked upon a half eaten pomegranate, raw and lost in shape- now this cat’s first meal of the day. I visit that pomegranate often, in Senegal, lost in my thoughts.
As an artist; I see my life through the lens of questions, creating meanings, and being critical, especially with myself. I found my lens from a lifetime of art history courses. We’re taught about symbols and constant meaning within art. The pomegranate has an array of meanings.
The pomegranate is a Christian symbol of fertility. As stated by the National Library of Medicine, “...the pomegranate is often found in devotional statues and paintings of the Virgin and Child…” The fruit is often tied to women, wombs, our femininity, and expressions of our humanity. Pomegranates have been a frequent motif in my art. It evokes feelings around my feminine expression and how bountiful it is. But at times, I am reminded of Cap Skirring, my beautiful home spotted by heaps of trash, shattered glass, and dying animals eating rotting fruit. The pain prompted thoughts of black feminine hardship, dawn, and doom. To understand the history of black women and our struggle towards humanity is to hold the ability to understand the world. We must entertain the idea of the pomegranate to find a complete understanding.
Madonna of The Pomegranate by Sandra Botticelli (1485)
Black women are largely absent in art history. Sure, we may get our segment in some forward thinking art classes, but never with the same extension afforded to other identities. You do see pomegranates. You see them surrounded by virgin idols and women performing their femininity. But you’ll rarely see women like me graced with the reverence and respect of the feminine fruit. Women like me were not considered women for most of history and these small reflections of womanhood in art showcases in real life and my own practice of femininity. Oftentimes I wonder if I am “woman” enough to engage with these topics surrounding art, femininity, and sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I find myself sexy, compassionate, and alluring. But that does not mean I am a woman, especially when it comes to its intersection with blackness. I’m still taller than average, have small breasts, dark skin, and kinky dreadlocks. Society at large would argue I’m not woman enough to even consider myself any of the positive traits I attributed earlier. It’s an interesting phenomenon. A lot of black women are between a rock and hard space when it comes to embracing our femininity. Whether it be how men view and engage with us, our representation in popular media, or the ways in which we find esteem in ourselves, we often give the power to someone else when it comes to defining womanhood. You must be confident, you must have long hair and nice edges, your ass must be fat and your waist must be slim. A man should desire you, wish to commit to you, and showcase his undying love or else you are allowing less and ruining “it” for black women as a whole. You must have a man and he must have money, a big dick, and hate other women. You must have girlfriends that are sexy, beautiful, and educated. Your vagina must be hairless, oderless, wet, and withholding of pain and pounding. You can’t be. In reality I don’t shame any of these standards. I follow a lot of them subconsciously. I simply wonder why we have these standards for our womanhood and femininity.
A few years ago, I was in love with my best friend. I considered her my sister and I valued her like no other. I found her to be the perfect additive to my womanly perspective; she was someone I could talk to, engage with, and be fully honest in how I feel inadequate or embarrassed when it comes to showing up as a woman. Being masculinized has followed me my entire life, and being vulnerable with her was very easy. But I was shocked to find out she resented me, shamed me, and spread negative things about me behind my back. I later learned her secret disdain was rooted in her belief that I was the perfect woman. She didn’t understand what I had to complain about, and told me that I was the reason she grew into her own womanhood, so my perceived lack made her feel inadequate. Our relationship hurt me in more ways than most, but it gave me first hand experience with problems a lot of black women need to engage with.
What exactly makes you a woman? Is it because you have good pussy? An even sweeter mouth? Is it sexy clothes? The men you fuck? What exactly makes your gender performance attractive? Are you recognizing it as a performance?
These are all questions I’ve engaged with. Black womanhood is a very specific intersection with its own ordeals. I think even those that fall under this umbrella don’t understand why they feel so resentful in the womanhood they’ve been practicing, just as my friend did. When she revealed all the things she did behind my back, and later apologized and asked for forgiveness, I made sure to keep those questions in mind because a woman insecure in her womanhood is set up for failure. This is especially true when it comes to maintaining feminine connections. We had a long talk, centered on doing the work to be better. Despite my desire to understand and be understood, I was finally able to grasp what it means to be a black woman in this day and age.
Black women grow from rotten pomegranates. The seed was cracked, covered with flies, but still grew to create something new. Black Americans and others from the diaspora continue to encounter loss in regards to our womanhood and value. Whether that be metaphorical or literal rape, black women everywhere are having to reengage with their sense of identity through the lends of colonialism and degradation. Some cope with this dehumanization by following the same rules of womanhood as white women do. Shave your legs, do for your man, get married young and have a bunch of kids. Black women can never live up to any performance and it’s fruitless to make the attempt. We are black, after all. Any replication of the patriarchy is futile, because we cannot be defined as women by the patriarchal status quo.
Dream Caused By The Flight of A Bee by Salvador Dali (1944)
I push for black women to understand that their performance of womanhood will always be questioned because they’re black, first. When people ask me why I am so confident, I first say, “I’m sexy,” then I say, “keep telling yourself that.” I am confident because I am a dark skin black woman; so much of the world’s perception of me is rooted in insecurity, shame, and this idea that I do not love myself. But when I think about what I offer to the world, the men and women who find me alluring, and the power it takes to ask yourself tough questions, I feel confident. I feel grounded in myself and understand that what makes me a woman is because I say so. I am a woman. A woman that doesn’t believe in the patriarchal understanding of womanhood. I have sex with whomever I find attractive. I don’t shave unless I feel like it. When others tell me I have to do something, I find it sexy that I say no, because I can. And it all makes me a worthy woman, regardless of any hegemonic systems that are rooted in me laying in a bed of hatred.
Black women need to understand and accept that performances of womanhood will always come in vain, unless you escape patriarchy (which, you aren’t)! As a community, black women may never be understood like the pomegranate is in art, but I do believe we have the capacity to create a new idea of what it means to be woman enough. The desire to create a new solution in the midst of centuries old problems, empathizing with the pain you and others relate to, and holding space for authentic love and connection will always be enough, even if you came from rotten fruit.
published May 20, 2023
