Finding My Own #BlackGirlMagic
It all began a couple of years ago, on a sunny afternoon drive around town, when a friend of mine - a caucasian, hyper self-aware feminist who swears she was a cat in a past life - very casually said, "I need to go to the drug store to get a pair of neutral pantyho---" as SOON as those words left her lips, she very abruptly covered her mouth with her hands and blushed, as though she has just uttered the most profane or blasphemous words ever, which for being the unfiltered and free-spirited person she is, would normally never make her even so much as bat a lash. She apologetically said, "well, you know, what I mean, right, like neutral for ME, they wouldn't be neutral for you, because, well.. you're black, but yeah, they SHOULD be called neutral even for you, but they aren't, like why DO we call them neutral anyway, that's colorism!" she was absolutely correct.
It was not as though she said something that I had never thought about or came as a shock to me. It had just been my reality for as long as I could remember; the neutral coloured band-aids given in school would contrast my ashy chocolate skin. The drug store makeup that would only ever carry shades 1-5, so instead I'd have to go to the department store and pay double what most had to pay. Not being able to identify with the "everyday girl" they'd use in Tampon commercials because she didn't look like me. The token black character that acquaintances would say reminded them of me, because they had no other black identifier, and needed a way to assimilate during conversation. "Neutral" was "normal," but "neutral" was never me.
But in that moment, I realized that I no longer had to accept this version of reality as my own. In fact, I wondered why I had for so long, but it's true what they say about life, you know... that it gives you what you need, not when you ask for it, but when you're ready to receive it. I was ready to put that gift to good use, and that's what happened that day. I had a lot of work to do; I had to take a long look back on my life (a process I'm still going through now) and more times than not, I need to re-open wounds that have been poorly bandaged but not yet mended. I've cried and cringed and cracked up over the choices I've made, and the areas of my life that are still bruised.
The most reoccurring theme and the heart of this story, was the realization of what my black femininity meant in terms of my sexuality and my relationships with men. It made me think about the number of times that men have come up to me, and said absurd things like, "I've never dated an African girl before" or, "I wonder what'd it be like to sleep with a black girl" or, "You're really pretty for a dark skinned girl." always thinking twice about what that meant, and accepting these back-handed compliments when they were nothing but blatant insults.
Was my beauty a surprise to you because I am black? Why is the black experience so vastly different than it would be in another ethnicity? The illusion of "jungle fever" that is so aggressively perpetuated in popular culture is just that: an illusion. Yes, I may be black, yes I may be African, yes I may be beautiful, but those things are but mere pieces in the greater story of who I am as a person. So I accepted things out of what felt at the time like obligation, because the alternative - to speak out or retaliate - would make me unlikeable. How silly, right? Heaven forbid I was ever identified as yet another angry black female, irrational, disagreeable, no never me! I just wanted to be accepted and not ruffle any feathers. So I stopped pointing out parts of who I was so that others would be comfortable.
For most of my life, living in a predominantly white existence, listening to "white music", enjoying things that "usually only white people like," I’d done a phenomenal, Oscar award winning job of pretending that this version of normalcy I had learned to accept was okay. What's worse was that in my complacency, I implied that was. A lot of the time, I preferred to be the appeasing, cool, black friend, who apologized for the idiotic remarks of others instead of standing up for what I knew was just basic ignorance. I ignored my identity as a black woman living in a white-centric world. I forgot that it was actually okay just to like the music I liked or the books I read or enjoy the hobbies I had not because they were for "white" people or "black" people, but simply because that was my choice. I could never quite articulate how this dismissal of who I was as a person not only silenced me, but also inadvertently stifled my growth. And even when I knew better, and that the opposite was true, I somehow convinced myself that only certain parts of me were loveable. And the literal dark parts?...no, those were not.
There was something about that conversation in that car on that day which slowly began to open the proverbial flood gates of my self-acceptance and discovery. A door that continues to crack itself wide open and surprise me each and every day. It wasn't just about the pantyhose. It was about the fact that it became abundantly problematic that I had been placed specifically into a box that I had now also started to place myself in. I had learned the unhealthy habit of compartmentalizing myself, and I was finally ready to leave the confinements of that imaginary box.
But what I also learned was that the suppressed pain and confusion that I had felt for so long however, was a necessary component to my journey to self-awareness. There were no real regrets, just realizations and awareness of how those moments felt, and now, the promise moving forward to never to feel that way again. Feeling that pain in all its entirety and its confusion and its shame was the only way I could heal from it. And then, let it go. Because now, it's pain that I no longer feel. Instead it's freedom. I can no longer be hurt by anything that no longer controls me.
I realize this is about my experience as a black woman. I can't assume that I can feel the pain that you've felt in your journey through womanhood. I can't pretend to say I know what I'm talking about when it comes to my latina, caucasian, east asian, south asian or biracial sisters. Not even the experience of another black woman in a white world. But I do know one thing for sure: that as a woman - any woman, EVERY woman, you are enough. This is a story about the woman that is only praised or criticized entirely on her superficialities, her face, her ass, her curly hair, her straight hair. What about her brain? What about her fears, her goals? Her family? How dare a man sexualize you in a heteronormative context, describing what you are and what you're not. That is a lot of the reason that this problem continues to be perpetuated. Rarely do I have those ludicrous encounters or conversations with my loving sisters of an array of colour. It's always men. And it's always sexual.
It is definitely not too much to be more than half-loved. In fact, it's only enough to be fully loved. Real love doesn't choose one aspect of who a person is, or another of what one isn't. If anyone makes you feel like only parts of you are worthy to be loved, then run for the hills, babe. It's not anyone's job to pick and choose what they adore or detest in a person based on things that are innate to who they are. Not even God herself does that.
Since this awakening, that as a black woman, I am a WHOLE person and I'm not the bits and pieces of an unrealistic expectation, and that I deserve the kind of love that I'd be happy to so freely give to another, I'm now incapable of going back to thinking otherwise, and that is a beautiful and powerful place to be in.
I can't control the unlearned and benighted comments that come out of the mouths of people that I encounter. All I can do is change myself, and hopefully educate those around me to start a conversation that will hopefully enlighten their perspectives. I'm not here to fill your quota. I'm not here to satisfy your unrealistic sexual fantasies that are so beautifully depicted by the Nicki Minajs and Lil Kims of the world. Because it's not MY reality, nor will it ever be. I'm just me. Skin as dark and strong as the soil that feeds the roots of this earth, and I'm a woman. I like what I like, I don't what I don't. And I'm beautiful. And I am feminine. And I celebrate my sexuality however the hell I bloody well want to.