Black is me.
When I was a little girl, my mother refused to buy me Barbie dolls. I remember her saying that when she was younger, those dolls were made specifically for White girls to play with. I didn’t understand the meaning of this then, but over the years I’ve learned that I’m looked at by society as being different. Retracing my history to the days where racism was alive and well, I learned that little Black girls could not even share the same toys as little White girls. Their kind got to play with pretty dolls while my kind was reduced to homemade rag dolls. And there was no logical reasoning to this discrimination- this judgement was solely based upon appearances. And having to learn at such an early age that older American society decided that my people were ugly, I couldn’t sit comfortably in my own skin.
When I got to middle school, and boys and girls became more infatuated by one another, I couldn’t help but feel left out when I noticed that all of the boys around me would be flirtatious towards the other girls, and not to me. I was usually the one being made fun of for the way that I looked. All my life, I’ve always had shorter hair, and I didn’t mind it until the boys at school would make fun of me for it. When I would wear my hair back and in a ponytail, they would snicker behind my back about how small my ponytail was. I remember sitting at the benches in the lunch area and turning around to see two boys looking at me and holding up their hand to measure the length of my ponytail with their thumb and index finger. I didn’t understand why I was being made fun of, and it was then that my hair became one of my biggest insecurities. I didn’t want to go to school with my hair in ponytails anymore. I started to think that my I had bad hair because I was Black. My hair was so short, nappy, thick, coarse, dry, stiff, unmanageable, ugly. I wanted my mother to press and curl my hair every day to give it length, volume, and life; to make it look good for everyone else. I used to compare my hair to my friends’ hair and wish that I had hair like theirs. Their hair was so long, flowy, and beautiful, and that’s what the boys liked.
In later years, I no longer struggled with my hair, but with my body image. It was my senior year of high school, and I was getting ready to go to Homecoming. My mom had taken me out shopping one night to find a dress to wear to the dance, and while we were shopping, I kept trying on dress after dress, only to that none of them were right for me. I came across this black, bodycon dress that I thought was cute until I put it on. I was standing in the dressing room mirror staring at my arms, chest, and legs, never realizing until that point how skinny I was. People have always told me I was skinny, but I had never seen my body in this way before. I would usually go for the A-line dresses that were more fitted on the top, and flowy at the bottom. This was the first skin tight dress I had ever put on, and I was mortified! My mother came in the dressing room to look at me in the dress, and I remember telling her that I didn’t like it because I thought that I was too skinny to wear it. She laughed and jokingly responded, “That’s the best time for you to wear a dress like that!” I assumed that she was saying that if I was fat, I wouldn’t be able to wear it, but I don’t think she understood what I was really trying to say. And, right after she said that, I remember thinking that what she said was so backwards. I had it in my mind that bigger, and curvier girls would be able to pull off a slimming dress better than a girl who just fell flat. And in my culture, big breast and thick thighs are idolized, and that’s a standard I was never be able to live up to. And I remember feeling so frustrated and defeated because of it.
I’m sharing my story with you today because in my writing class, we have been discussing the different societal themes exhibited in fairytales. I chose to discuss beauty and the theme of how society forces young girls to look at themselves and judge their own appearances because of what they’re taught about beauty. Revisiting the story of Snow White made me reflect upon all of my own shortcomings in regards to my own self-esteem. I’ve come to realize that I relate to the evil queen to some extent. She, like myself looked to others for confirmation of her beauty when she should’ve been reaching within herself for her own confirmation. She let another person’s (or mirror’s) comments dictate how she saw herself, and it tarnished her soul in the end. I, however, had to learn rather quickly to deviate from the road to self-hate. Whenever I received unsolicited complements, I internalized them until I thought them to be true. This helped me cloud out the judgement and appreciate the different aspects of my being. Now, at 18 years old, I’m in a much better place with myself. From my middle school self, I’ve learned that Black hair is the best hair and from my high school self, I’ve learned that my long, skinny arms and legs allow me to reach new heights.
