Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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The body is a temple created in the image of the divine: God. It is a holy vessel, and when we inhabit it, we do so with the understanding that we are stewards of this divine creation, and all the power and wisdom it possesses.
We honor this vessel. We don't mark it. We don't modify it. We don't alter the body with the assumption that we are free to do so, because this body does not belong to us.
From the time I was small, my mother had always insisted on this belief, that our bodies were sacred, created in the divine image. They were not our own property, but rather, God's holy vessels, and we were entrusted with their care. We were not to mark or alter them in any way. This belief was her personal creed, reiterated like a prayer, a pledge she would uphold until her last breath.
Whenever she voiced these words, they weren't fully directed at me. Instead, she'd be facing the mirror, ensuring her face was flawlessly made-up and her hair impeccably styled for another Sunday service.
In speaking these words, she wasn't merely sharing her belief; she was denying the reality. For she didn't live in her body, rather, she lived for others and the church. The church dictated that to honor her body, she had to deny herself, suppress her desires, and conceal her true self.
She could adorn herself with beautiful clothes, makeup, and hairstyles, but not for her own pleasure. She did them to glorify the church. And my father.
This was the path my mother chose. A life of subjugation. And she instilled this very ideology in my sister and myself.
We were forbidden from tattoos and piercings, except for earrings. We had to remain pure, untouched by sin. Immaculate. Even though I rejected her teachings, a part of me was still intimidated by them.
That's why I kept the tattoo on my right ring finger concealed. Why I never dared to add a piercing or color my hair until I left home. Why even after my college years, I felt I hadn't fully asserted my independence.
I was haunted by the fear that breaking my mother's imposed code would incur her eternal disappointment. That she might curse me or that God would.
Ironically, the very things I'd feared for so long became my source of comfort, love, and empowerment.
I found myself attached to those who defied conventions. Those who expressed their individuality. Those who embraced their authentic selves.
I yearned for that authenticity. I wanted to emulate them.
I wanted to live, not merely exist.
As I stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around myself, a torrent of thoughts churned in my mind. My left hand instinctively traced the tattoo on my right ring finger, three tiny yet profound dots.
