The Art of Self-Love

Lucea, Jamaica ◆ June 27, 2016 ◆ Series: Chasing Violet ◆ Short Story

“Buuurrrrrrrr-iiiiiingggg!”

The loudness of the school bell permeated into my ear drums.

“Alright, see you tomorrow kids” my history teacher hollered over the sound of shuffling feet and zipping backpacks. My classmates exited the room quickly, shoving themselves through the tiny door in order to go home and well, momentarily escape the hell that is high school. We were learning about slavery in class today, and no one even batted an eye. Including Roy, the one other black kid in the whole entire school.

The room nearly emptied. Even our teacher was gone.

“Wow, today’s history class really sucked didn’t it?” Roy said to me as I was setting my red, black, and green notebook into my messenger bag. “I’d rather learn about anything else”. He concluded.

I was silent. And kind of annoyed by him. You see, Roy wasn’t a horrible kid, he just knew nothing about race, and so conversations with him felt a little…difficult. And so I often avoided him. But still, I wanted Roy to be better; I wanted him to love his identity the way I did from a young age. I wanted him to shift from the mindset that was our all-white high school so badly that it almost hurt.

“Roy, why don’t you like learning about our history?” I was beginning to question him more than ever.

“Well, for one, it’s boring to me.” Roy said in a childish tone. “And secondly, why would I want to know my black skin means that I came from slaves”. He continued obliviously. “that’s nothing to be proud of, Violet. You know that right?”

My silence continued. My feet began shifting uncomfortably. I wanted to yell and yell and yell…but I knew that wasn’t the answer.

“What do you see, when you see black skin, Roy?” I began feeling sympathy for this sad young man who obviously hated himself.

“I see… a large nose. Big ass ears. And skin that looks dark like concrete”.

My heart sank into my stomach. I don’t know why I was so surprised, our environment, much like Roy, was stifling to the mind.

“What do you see Violet?” Roy asked me oh so earnestly. As if he hadn’t already just pissed me off. I could tell he valued my opinion though, and he always saw me reading, so I spoke anyway.

“When I see black skin, I see an untouched link to the past. I see a lineage of royalty; an essence that can only be held by someone whose skin the sun kissed so deeply. I see smooth deep skin, almond eyes, springy coils, and full, rounded lips that speak words that only I can understand.

I see wooly, kinky coils, Roy, that spring back into place when pulled straight. Gravity, your black hair defies it. Your mane has a mind of its own, but don’t let anyone mistake it for “wild”, your hair moves in every direction it’s supposed to be.”

I playfully pulled at one of Roy’s curls, teasing him a bit. Knowing it would bug him inside.

“But when I see you, Violet, I see peanut butter, smooth and sweet.”

“Stop” I interjected quickly. I knew if I let him, he’d try to romanticize me. And I didn’t want his flirtation, nor his idolization.

“My black skin holds a story of pain, violence, and exquisite triumph that cannot be ignored.” I continued.

“It is a daily reminder of my ancestors and what they endured to bring me here. I also see a link that cannot be broken. A link so strong it continues to run through my veins as though it were never dulled.”

Roy gazed at me inquisitively. I paused before continuing on.

“Diluted black skin. But still black skin it is. My blackness cannot be denied. It is beautiful!”

I closed my notebook.

“VIOLET!” he shot up onto his feet as if he’d discovered a new world or something. “who taught you all of this??!”. His eyes grew wide and round with amusement, with an infectious smile reaching from one cheek to the other.

“I read a lot” I responded.

I could tell that in that moment, Roy would never look at himself the same. The echo of my deep, smooth voice permeated into his conscious and well, it was there to stay. He had awoken. And he wanted me say more.

But I couldn’t. I knew there was far more for me to discover, so I hugged him tight and tip toed out of the empty classroom and off to the library of African studies with my notebook in hand.

“I hope that finally got to him” I thought to myself as I pulled onto the tight, black coils sprouting out of my scalp. “Maybe one day I’ll be a professor” I daydreamed. “or an author” I continued.

Forgiving Roy was the easy part. But understanding that his black life mattered, even when he didn’t know it, was an important lesson for me. I needed more patience for my people, especially while fighting for them. “this is mental slavery” I thought to myself. “And I exist to de-construct it. Sometimes with love. Other times with patience”. And so, I thought, the fight for freedom continues.

I cracked open my notebook and began writing.

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Carey is a senior at the University of Oklahoma studying entrepreneurship with a minor in african american studies and social justice. She is a founder, writer, and photographer. She’s studying abroad in Kingston, Jamaica. Check out her personal site here.