Prometheus 6

And smitten by what? No one confuses Rice with Beyoncé Knowles, and she's a little thin for me anyway. Furthermore, she's Lex Luthor evil, man. How else to explain doing the bidding of a mental paralytic like George Bush? Or being the adopted daughter of the clan that brought us Willie Horton, "read my lips," and the slur "evildoers"? Meanwhile, I'm one part lefty, one part race-man. If you cut me I'd bleed green—then red and black, too. What could a Black Panther-sired, Malcolm X-worshiping, People's History of America-toting idealist see in a battle-ax like Condi Rice? Simply put, Rice, with her commanding presence and steely confidence, is the ultimate black woman.

Power has always been a defining feature for black women. African Americans didn't need Gloria Steinem to acquaint us with strong women. Sojourner Truth invented black feminism. Ida B. Wells rode through the South with a pistol in her lap. Hell, my mother regularly jacked me up, well into my high school days. Wells, Truth, and my moms employed their inner strength for the good of mankind—or maybe just for the good of a stupid kid. But their power always captivated me more than their benevolence. And no black woman—maybe in all of history—has wielded more power than Rice.