Written By: Alexandra Hill

I think one of the most painful things about being a black woman in the United States is constantly receiving messages that we are ugly. There are so many direct and indirect attacks against us on a daily basis. The ads that, if they feature a black woman at all, put her off to the side or in a position that suggests she is not important.  The darkest drugstore foundation that is five shades too light. The white beauticians that have no idea how to do our hair. We even hear from our own families that our skin is too dark or our hair is too nappy.  We have too much ass, or we don’t have enough. We are too rough.  Our nose is too wide. We are not “his type.” Yet in the midst of this toxicity, we are also told we should love ourselves or no one else will love us. That it’s our fault if we don’t feel confident in our brown skin. Reclaiming a sense of value as a black woman in American society can feel damn near impossible.

But what is it like to live somewhere else? Are there places outside of the U.S. where people think differently? Are there places (outside of Africa) where black women are respected and seen as beautiful? The U.S. does a great job of making Americans scared to travel outside of the country, especially as black folks. We are taught that we live in “the greatest country on earth”, and that we are foolish to think we could receive better treatment anywhere else, lest we find that we are hated even more abroad than we are at home. Better to stay put, right?

I have lived outside of the United States twice. Today, writing to you from Mexico City, and the first time when I studied abroad in Barcelona when I was 19. It was 2007, and I had stopped perming my hair and did the big chop. There weren’t a lot of natural hair products available then nor a lot of style inspo online. I had to just figure it out myself. Before I left for Spain, my father sat me down to tell me I couldn’t possibly go anywhere with my hair looking like that (in its natural state). He was genuinely concerned. I was rocking a short afro, a pair of awful Sperry topsiders, low rise jeans, and eyebrows that would never work in 2020. I had never lived in another country before. I was excited, but nervous at the same time- what would Spain be like for a nerdy black girl like me?

Surprisingly, it was a breath of fresh air. For the first time, I felt like guys actually liked me. I had my first kiss, hookup and heartbreak all in one semester. (I know, I was a late bloomer).  In San Diego where I grew up, there weren’t a lot of black kids. I went to white and latino schools. Me and the other black girls I knew just magically stayed single. Even the black boys were drinking the kool aid, and only wanted to date girls that were the “right” shade with the “right” hair. So imagine me at 19 with my little 4c afro, as naive as can be, in a place where I finally got attention. And it wasn’t coming from the American guys in our program- they acted like the guys back home. The attention came from our Spanish friends and other European guys we met. Guapa, they’d growl as you walked by with your drink, some of them even daring to  grab you. To these men, black women were exciting and exotic. Looking back,

I sadly see a heavy dose of fetishism in the attention we received.  But at the time, I had been so devalued for so long, it didn’t matter. For the first time, I felt free, desired and cute. Then I had to come back home.

Not until after college, living and working in the Bay Area, I slowly became more confident in my skin and aware of what anti-blackness looks like up close. Even then, I still found all the microaggressions overwhelming. My first serious boyfriend was Nigerian. “Well at least you’re lighter than me” I remember him saying once, as if it was a compliment and the only redeeming thing I had to offer him. On another occasion a close chicana friend asked why I didn’t get rid of my sisterlocks and wear my hair like Beyonce. Another said my hair felt like straw. Or the first date with the Harvard educated brother that stuck his hands in the back of my head to see if I was wearing extensions. Life was degrading and exhausting, and I needed a change.

Late 2017, I traveled to Mexico City solo. While on a tour, I met my now partner who is chilango. On our first date we walked around the Basilica de Guadalupe, casually dodging the sexual tension between us. He touched my nose and said it was cute. I almost jumped from the shock. No one had ever given me a compliment on my nose. Later, he touched my hair and he almost got snatched.  I found myself in that familiar space that I remembered from Spain, feeling more seen and desired than I had back home in years- but wondering, how do these people see me?

A year later, when I moved, I was worried about how I would be received as a black woman living in Mexico. Outside of my relationship, how would people view me? Would it be as bad as back home? I knew I wouldn’t be able to get my hair done for sure. Again, I was surprised. I found that In a country where most of the population lives in poverty, being American generally comes with the assumption that you got money, it doesn’t matter if you are black. Respectability politics is largely the determining factor here. Me and my black girlfriends tend to be treated with respect except in fancy (whiter) mexican neighborhoods, and I have noticed my lighter skinned girlfriends get treated better. Since there are virtually no black people here, there is lots of staring, questions about your hair, and where you are from. Everyone wants to be your friend.

Walking through the perfume section at the mall, a saleswoman flagged me down.

I thought she wanted to spray me with some terrible perfume, so I politely kept going. “Por favor,” she insisted, grabbing my shoulder with a big smile. “Can you take a picture with me? I love people with afro skin.” Something inside of me felt both flattered and sad. I awkwardly took a selfie with her, but I still don’t know how to feel about that moment.

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