Confessions of a Young Black Girl

As a young girl I was obsessed with baby dolls. Barbies, Polly Pockets, Bratz, etc., I wanted them all. I can remember one distinct occurence in my young and most definitely ignorant life where my mother brought home a baby doll for me. Since I was so obsessed with these, you’d think I’d be overjoyed, right? Wrong. I screamed and cried and threw a fit because that baby doll I received was black instead of white in skin tone. I can’t recall the events that occurred after my reaction, but I’m sure my mother must’ve been pretty agitated with it. Looking back at it now, I’m extremely disgusted with my reaction.

Skin color has always been a factor that seemed relevant in my life. Growing up in a predominately white neighborhood, I was always aware of my blackness. I saw these pretty little blonde girls being chased and their hair being pulled by all the handsome young white boys and it made me want that same attention, yet I felt I couldn’t attain it because I was ugly, but most importantly because I was black. Black, in my mind, signified ugly.

Now I can’t help, but to be utterly disappointed with my young self. Here I was, so young, not even old enough to be in double digits and I considered myself to be ugly simply based on my skin tone. I could not equate my gloriously brown skin with beauty because every facet of my life, from school to television to magazines, screamed that what I was could not possibly be desirable let alone beautiful. What is a little black girl in a white world to do?

I spent many years, and quite literally I mean long begruding years, hating myself because I would never be beautiful because I wasn’t white or at least “light-skinned” like my mother and sister (let it be known, they had always been the most beautiful women in my life). In my head there are two very clear and quite sad questions I must ask myself:

1. Why did I equate my worth to such superficial and insignificant standards like the attention of idiotic little boys?

and…

2. How could I not see that me being black is one of the most beautiful parts about me?

Everyone has insecurities, yet I went through many years of thinking I was the literal definition of ugly. I was ugly because I didn’t fit into the categories of what society (and ultimately myself) set as a standard for beauty. Beauty to me was fair-skinned and light-eyed and let me tell you I couldn’t be any farther from that. Of course my mother and sister (the ones I most admired for their beauty) could meet that standard; both with their curly locks and entrancing green eyes would always overshadow what I thought was my muddy brown eyes and matching brown hair that always seemed to take more effort to tame. They were always a reminder that I could never be beautiful like them, and at some point I started to resent them to some degree… there are even moments now where I feel inadequate in comparison to them ,but I’m working really hard to overcome that.

Now as I have grown stronger, more independent, and simply more intelligent, I have a better perspective on where I went wrong as a child. Yes, there is misrepresentation in the media and yes there are people out there who equate beauty with particular skin colors and yes that is harmful thinking, but me letting their opinions effect my grasp of myself and my worth is the real problem. We can’t change what other people are saying, but we can change our reaction to it and in short: I chose poorly. With realization of such a bad decision, I received clarity on who I really am.

I am female. I am black. I am beautiful too, BUT that is not all that I am.

I am also caring. I am smart. I am generous. I am brave. I am deeply passionate. I am so many things that have nothing to do with my outer appearance which I have let hinder me in my growth into a well-rounded woman. I let the opinions of others, even those elementary school boys, limit the way in which I see myself for who I really am. Because I am so much more than my body and my skin and my hair.

However, if we are going to highlight my physical self, when getting down to the cold hard facts: I am Black. There lies alot of painful history revolved around being black in this world. I don’t have to say much, but it is common knowledge that colored people have not had the easiest time in regards to societal acceptace and equality even to this day and age. Yet, even with all the hate and pain spewed at us, we have overcome. WE HAVE OVERCOME.

We are strong and smart. We are inventors. We are teachers. We are students. We are beautiful in mind and spirit as well as body, and I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it. Black people and black culture are so inspiring in their ability to adapt and adjust and this is ultimately something that I am so fortunate to be a part of. Being black is what fuels the fire in me to not stand for the mistreatment of people, it is what gives me passion to care about those who are not as privileged as I. My black makes me a better human being.

I will always struggle with insecurity and self-confidence, but everyday I take the time to try to love myself a little bit more. So yes, my black is beautiful and I am beautiful despite not letting that be a factor that defines me. I don’t want to see other little black boys and girls go through years of self-hate in order to meet a goal that can never be attained that truly should never have been recognized as a goal in the first place. We are more than that, we deserve more than that.