Isn’t it a pity; isn’t it a shame; A remark overheard while driving a school bus:
“There go mah cousin!”
I glanced over to see a thin young black woman standing on the corner, calves knotted, wearing very high heels. Her bright, colorful skirt was too tight and far too short above her broad mesh stockings; her blouse revealing far too much cleavage. She wore bangles on her wrists, chains on her neck, false eyelashes and big loopy earrings and an oversize wig. For all the world – a streetwalker of an afternoon.
“She’s working her way through college.” (giggles all ’round)
I thought to myself: Isn’t it a pity; isn’t it a shame; that these eight-year old black girls are already aware of the flesh trade?
And isn’t it a pity; isn’t it a shame; that they do not know the whole of it: that the cultural, religious and time-honored institution of marriage evolved from prostitution?
It is the very height of wisdom for a woman to marry a man for his money. It is wisdom for a girl to set her cap for a man of substance; a man of means; a man of property; or at very least good prospects, rather than rely solely on dopey twitterpation; or work for cash.
Matrimony is Mother Money
But, on the other hand, how many times must a woman divorce and remarry before she is recognized as a prostitute? Marriage is, after all, a “one shot” deal.
We all went to different schools together. I was taught to venerate the virgin.
Silly me: I thought marriage was something sacred.