Becky, this will be short. I’ve always known of you. You might think that you’ve been able to love my man, live in the corners of his life while I tend to the mainland. You are wrong.
Becky, I saw you pop up, cloaking your relationship with him in innocence; clutching to “we are just friends” like that would make a difference to me. I smelled you in his bed while we cuddled up. I heard you knock on his dorm room door, hoping I wasn’t there, only to find that I was always there. You’d stand in the doorway whispering to him so that I couldn’t over hear. I want you to know, Becky, that I heard you.
And then after that man, Becky, you arrived in my next rekindled relationship with my new man that was love deficient. I, giving him everything I had to give like time, love, and effort, saw you lying there with your legs spread wide, swallowing him in.
I even read the love note my man wrote to you. It read like a prayer almost. A letter of gratitude and desire and love and connection and commitment. He never wrote anything like that for me, Becky.
It was at that moment, broken down and sloppy after just giving birth, that I hated myself because of you Becky. Or because of him, Becky. Or because of you both.
Maybe I’m not light enough or maybe my hair is too short or maybe it’s the baby weight or maybe I’m not cultured enough (I remember you playing an instrument and doing film at some point). What is it about me that I can’t be like you?
I’ve done some deep soul searching though girl and in that search, I tripped over my self worth that I’d lost a while back. It became clear that those men were never mine to have if the were ever open to knowing you. I want you to have them Becky. Love them Becky. Swallow them whole. I will warn you though, if you ever stumble over your self worth, find it in the trash can you left it in; it may need some fixing up before you can put it back where it belongs.
Best of luck,
Latifah with the nappy hair