I was with the other women

In the woman’s place

In the palace

And it’s only

The letter “A”

That separates place

From palace

I was with the other women

When he called

I had been up cooking all night

And had just wiped

The last of the semolina

Off my forehead

And we were finally ready to eat

When he called

We were in our one hundred

And eighty-seventh day of celebrating

One hundred and eighty seven times

I was called up

Pageanted for him

And the visiting priests, provinces, and princes

He had been feasting for the last six days

Without calling

I waited six

I was queen

He told me that

I was clear

Or tried to convince myself to be clear

I was picked

Like the prized pie at the carnival

Because I was the fairest

When he called

He never thought

I would refuse him anything

I was lucky you know

And yes

I heard him calling

Cuz I hear everything

I am a woman

Ears trained to ground and sky

I hear the women

Like myself


Like the bread we ate that day


Who were picked over

For some beauty standard

That had nothing to do with us

I wasn’t leaving this party

It felt right

And yes

I heard him calling

But I also heard god’s warning breath

Whisper in my ear

With my mother’s fear

         “Say no girl

         Say no”

So when he called

It was the seventh day

He had been drinking

His heart was merry with wine

He was drunk

And ordered

         Because that’s what you can do

         When you make someone a queen

He ordered me

To him

In the crown royal


He was ready to show me off





Because I a woman

And I am moved

Like the women I am with

And the women I come from

Are moved

And there is a place

And it’s only the letter “A”

That separates place from palace

In my belly now

Fuller than the feast

Whose grease

Lingers on my fingers

There is a place left

From gathering with my like

Telling me what to say

And I am finally ready to hear

This word

This bird

Flying out of my mouth

Turned song

And I am sure

Other queens have heard it

Put their tongues

To the roof of their mouths

And tasted it

My sisters













We who have all said no

And have not known

And known at the same time



For our daughters

The next in our broken royal lines


For their voices strong and spirit led


We can say mother and father god

Can think

That in the company of women

Quiet wars can be raged

Battles birthing women

Women birthing battles

Who don’t forget their kindred

Or their people

When he called

There was new breath in mine

Pushing this defiance

Out of my chest

Like life

Collapsing in on itself

Like rock caught in the craw of my throat

Like tear and snot braced for pain

Like we are getting ready

To sing

Or preach

Or pray

For the first time

Like I said

When he called

I had been up cooking

All night

And had just wiped

The last of the semolina

Off my forehead










My poem was the story of Vashti. In the first chapter of the book of Esther, Vashti was the queen of Xerxes. He made her a queen, and one day when King Xerxes was in the middle of a party that he threw for himself to show off his riches and spoils, he called for his queen. His prize. To show her off. And Queen Vashti, who was in the middle of a party that she was having with the other women, said, “No”. And so Xerxes consulted with his homeboys and they convinced him that he had to do something because of the public embarrassment of her refusal. That is when he declared, “All wives should obey their husbands.”

On this fourth Sunday of Women’s History Month I am compelled to lift up the stories of women like Vashti, and women all over the world at any bridge in history, whose “No” changed the course. These women are like the women I come from.

Women who said, “No” to patriarchy and “No” to leaving family and friends and like-mindedness and parties and cooking and being of service to one another. Women who said “No” to servitude.  And “No” to just one definition of liberation.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

I was the primary caregiver for both my grandmother and my mother until they passed. I was both their legal and their medical durable power of attorney. I, in the end of their lives, cared for their adult bodies in the ways that they cared for my infant body. In turn, through their journey with Alzheimer’s, I received their stories. I knew what they were for and against. I know these women that say “No.”

And because I knew them so well, I knew when they were finally saying “No” to this earth and “No” to this flesh. I knew when their “No” meant “No more.” And I spoke their “No’s” for them. No extraordinary life-saving measures. No, do not resuscitate. No, release them. They want to die at home.

I think about these Jehovah’s Witness women and how they dared to say, “NO!” in defense of God. These women, despite what religion had done to them, took up for God. These women said, “No, we must feel sorry for God because God does not have a mother and God does not have a God Mother either. God aint never had a Big Mama hug God in her bosom so tight til God thought that God would choke on her Jean Nate. God aint ever had nobody to look up to. God aint never had a woman say “No, you gotta go through me to get to God.”

I think about these women whose “No” spoke resistance. “No” to anyone who tried to take away the joy they eked out. No, you cannot have my Bobby Blue Bland, my Pokeno, my shoe collection, and no, you cannot keep me from gathering with my like.

By saying “no,” these women found a history whose face they could now get in, and with their hands on their hips, and their fingers in history’s face, assert their blackness and southernness, their womanness, their humanity, their right to vote, for equal rights, and for equal pay. NO! We deserve better than this! No, we held up our end of the bargain. We forgave.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

Because women who say “No” are not a concession stand. Aren’t easily swayed. Aren’t driftwood on the ocean. Or when they are on a bridge, they don’t stop singing, “No, I aint gon let nobody turn me around.”

“No” means, “I speak for myself”

“No” means “I gotta love myself a little more than I love you.”

So, say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

“No” from my grandmother meant to my mama, “Leave the boy here with me. He is mine. I will give him a little dough to make little pies as I make the big pies. Let him hide under my apron. No, you will not take him. He is safe here. We will need him later.”

“No” meant that, “Yes, Marvin will live.”

 “No” was also “No thank you. Not all of your goodness now, God. You have been so sweet already. I need to save some of this for later. Wrap it, tin foil and saran it for my kids.”

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

I grew up in public housing. And the narrative about people who live in public housing is that’s where you send poor women and black women and women like “that.” Public housing is the space they are relegated to. But when my mother said, “No, I will not crumble,” after my father left her with five kids under the age 10, and when she said, “No, I am not ashamed to get assistance,” she then chose welfare. Welfare didn’t choose her.  And she chose Oakland Housing Authority, and she chose to live amongst women. Her “No” meant that she understood that the men who hurt her would have no voice in the raising of her children. She knew you couldn’t have a father in public housing, because you couldn’t have two incomes. So she wanted to raise her boys and her girl amongst women. This was how she could do it. No, it was never a place they were sent. It was a place they went.

There is a bridge that connects the women I come from who say “No!” with the women who are a part of this GLIDE Church Family.

So, say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

My grandmother was a woman like Vashti who said “No.”  Because when she said “Lord, I’m open” that meant that there was a sign hung outside her door. No! I’m creaming the butter and the sugar. I am making chicory. I am waiting to see if my sister will follow the plan and leave when her abusive husband is at work. No, I am not cooking because I can. I am cooking because I cannot. It aint faith if I expect them and I’m not ready for them.”

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

Say No:

I will not do my job and his job.

I will not let you chain me to this desk

I will not call my family and tell them I have to work late again.

I will not offer any more proof other than that I am overqualified because I am a woman.

I will not stop saying “No” to injustice

I will not go back, because we are this bridge, and it is time to cross it.

We know a woman’s “No” is her highest faith stance. It is for her and not against anyone else.

I can hear the women I come from say, “No, I am a woman, and I will not sit here in this garden and not know how things grow. I will not sit around Eden getting fat and playing house with Adam. No, I am a woman before I am a companion. Adam was asleep on the job. I am the first contractor, and the first to push through the pain, the first through blood, sweat and tears, to give birth to movements. No, a rib and a womb aint the same thing.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

Say No:

To the status quo.

To waiting your turn.

To only going forward when called.

To participating in everyone else’s beauty standard.

To violence, at home, at school and at play.

To sharing the spotlight, and never being illuminated.

Say No:

This is not the way. My Woman Positioning System is never wrong.

Say No and assert and insert and insist that your needs get met.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No!”


A woman who says, “No!” is named Eve,

Or a woman who says, “No!” might be named Rahab,

Or a woman who says, “No!” might withhold her name from history

Because she knows that history, biblical and world, 

Could never get her right.

NO! I am not just Noah’s wife,

Or the Syrophoenician Woman, I have a name,

My name is Ann,

My name is Sar-Rah,

My name is Janice,

My name is Paula,

My name is Kaye,

My name is Vicki,

My name is Joan,

My name is Florence,

My name is Heloise,

My name is Shirley,

My name is Joan Ann,

My name is Phyllis,
My name is Felicia,

My name is Roxanne,

My name is Elmira,

My name is Elaine

My name is Geraldine,

My name is Xaree,

My name is Bessie

My name is Margaret

My name is Tranishia,

My name is Annie,

No, my name is not COVID.

My name is my name.

And my name is a witness.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

No, this is not a hole, this is a door, with a key, and it is where hope comes from.

No, I am not as small as you say I am; look how my arms can wrap around god’s neck.

No, there is something deeper than these bulbs and I will keep digging.

No, my skin is not available for you to prove yourself.

No, I am not waiting on a miracle. I am a miracle.

No, baby girl, you did nothing wrong. He has watched your backline for slack. You could not have known his “baby, baby, babies” were going to stop and the beatings would start.

Say “No,” girl. Say “No.”

For we who have all said no

And have not known

And known at the same time



For our daughters

The next in our broken royal lines


For their voices strong and spirit led


We can say mother and father god

Can think

That in the company of women

Quiet wars can be raged

Battles birthing women

Women birthing battles

Who don’t forget their kindred

Or their people

Do you remember that time

When he called,

And “He” is anything that pulls us from

Our womanhood

Our Sophia

Our Shekinah,

And “He” is anything that separates us

From the divine feminine

Old Wives Tales

Kitchen Table Wisdom

Life giving parts

Do you remember that time

We had been up cooking

All night

And had just wiped

The last of the semolina

Off our forehead






To  Eat

And we said “No”