One of my earliest recollections revolved around the belief my body was actually a fleshy hoosegow. It was never strong enough, big enough, feminine enough. I was surrounded by my brothers who, even as little boys, carried themselves with an authority that I found contagious, one that I was repeatedly told I had no right to embrace.

It seemed I was always out of step and something in me was always lunging forward.

When I was little, everyone knew that black was beautiful. They told each other so all the time.  Everyone had an Afro, everyone wore dashikis over their jeans and whatnot, everyone wanted to see some part of Africa, and when they went there, they were welcomed as long lost brothers and sisters--which is exactly what everyone called everyone else anyway. No one had to tell me. It was obvious that being black was a wondrous thing. But nothing indicated that this was true of being black and female.

And then I met Pam Grier.

It always amazes me that a lot of women, especially black women, don't know who she is. Now that Tarantino's Jackie Brown is out, everyone will think they know, because that's a bigger part of what it means to like him and his movies in the first place. But I grew up with her. I know for real.

She was a phenomenon of one, and no one knew quite what to do with her. Because Hollywood saw a momentary trend, her knock-offs were all over the place. Remember Tamara Dobson as Cleopatra Jones?  ("She's 6'2" and full of dy-no-mite!") Doesn't anyone remember Theresa Graves of Get Christy Love, Pam Grier's TV counterpart? I never missed an episode. I remember the night they took that show off the air and replaced it with that ever-aging blonde Angie Dickenson in Police Woman.  Why are they taking all the kung-fu fighting, butt-kicking, take-no-prisioners black girls away, I remember thinking.  And then just like that, the 70's were over.

God, I wanted to be just like Pam Grier when I grew up. I wanted a body like hers. I wanted to beat guys up like she did, and sling guns and wear a big ol' Maxi coat and have an Afro and save "The Community" from "The Man." Well. I got the Afro. (Didn't we all get the Afro?) I got the Maxi coat for Christmas one year (and I was so angry when I outgrew it). I can remember making a fist and sinking it into some boy's face in the middle of a playground one day because he was "messin' wit' me." (I believe that's what I told my homeroom teacher.) I figured knocking him upside the head was better than letting him hit me, any day. Pam didn't take no stuff, my eight year-old mind was probably thinking, so why should I?.

What I really wanted was to be empowered.

I wanted to be strong and feminine at the same time, something society still says is a big no-no. Might scare guys off.  And for some of us, on some level or another, it's all about not scaring guys off.  (Unbelievable.)  Still and all, when I go to a Blaxploitation film festival or trip up over something like Coffy or Get Sheba Baby in the middle of the night on cable tv, I can't help but float back to a time and place when black girls really did rule the world--at least on film.