when I was little, I grew up in a mainly white neighborhood, went to a mainly white school and, since my father was never in the picture, had an all white family. Even though they raised me well, and I don’t blame them for this, they ended up white washing me a little. They just raised me the way they had been raised which, consequently, didn’t involve any black culture.
By the time I was in elementary and middle school, my limited knowledge of black culture led me to believe it was a bad thing. Something I should be ashamed of. I never thought I was pretty or cute. I hated my curly hair and the color of my eyes. I envied the pale skin and blue eyes around me. It even got to a point where if someone mentioned my skin color or called me black, I would flat out try to say that I wasn’t. That my dad was black but never in the picture so I didn’t identify with that identity.
I denied being black. Let that sink in. I denied being black.
Because all of the princesses were white and people with my color skin were called ghetto. Because I was made fun of for having plump lips and a wide nose. Because all I saw on tv was long flowey straigt hair and blue and green eyes and rosy freckled cheeks. I hated the way I looked.
only now, because of black representation and things like the #Blackout, can I look back and say this little girl was beautiful.
Only now can I say, that I am beautiful. Black and all.