Often as Black women we are made to feel smaller, unworthy, or ashamed of our bodies and self-conscious about the way we show up in the world. People love to steal our ideas, brilliance and shine but to all the negativity and hate out there, I say – you can try to imitate but you cannot replicate. Though society tries to sell the image that anything associated with Black bodies is “ghetto” or “unprofessional”, Black people are the originators of cool, trend-setting and avant-garde fashion – even when we are not credited for our inventions.
Authentic confidence comes from within and showing up as your beautiful Black self is the highest definition of beauty, class and style. We have every right to rock bold lipsticks, wear tighter fit clothing (without being inherently sexualized), experiment with different patterns and textures and live our best lives – OUTLOUD.
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The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman. The most policed person in the World is the Black young girl.
Young Black girls all over the world are often policed by strangers, neighbors, church members, teachers, and their own families. Black girls are policed on how to do their hair, what to wear, and their weight. We are never given the option to exist freely. There is always a system in place to remind us to be “humble”. We have to be humbled by those for being confident and lacking the confidence that they wish they had.
For as long as I can remember there was always an adult, whether it was in church or at school, that felt the need to humble me. This wasn’t discipline, this was attacking my confidence and reminding me that no matter where I wanted to find joy, I always had to shrink myself to be welcomed.
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As a Black woman, slicked down edges make me feel powerful! I’m absolutely, unapologetically, proud of that fact! Now, I am a true black hair enthusiast! I enjoy black women enjoying their black hair in ANY way they see fit. Even if that means loving your hair in a manipulated state. Be it afros, coils, bundles, braids, or my favorite: a nice, powerful, slicked-up ponytail. You know the kind that's raised up high to the sky and sassy as hell! It’s mind-boggling to me that in this era of embracing our hair textures and differences that there are women still shaming others about how they enjoy their hair. You can be a beautiful black queen who embraces her hair and decide to wear it in manipulated states. In our new world full of "love your natural hair" somehow we got lost in the fact that you should be able to enjoy your hair in any state that you prefer. Duality, baby! The best part about my powerful pony, is my edges! Some may say "Girl, you are in your 30's! WHY are you still worried about baby hairs?!” Well, let’s just call these grown folk follicles then, OK?! My edges a.k.a. baby cares a.k.a. slides swoops are the razzle-dazzle to my look.
Read MoreBut liberal racists look nothing like that these days. They smile at you with big, bright, and seemingly accepting eyes. They wear the same hoop earrings, Frenchbraids, and Obama bumper sticker as you do. They call you presumptively endearing names like bro or sis when feeling a little spicy... They say please and thank you in docile tones...afraid of rustling feathers. They come into your communities as “well doers'', “missionaries “and “fixers”. They look at you uneasy and adjust themselves when you enter a space that they thought was safe and was away from you.
Read MoreLast week, I had to explain to my mom that I do not date because I am invisible.
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When I think about her shows, I become especially concerned at the stereotypes that Black women are put into. In the media, Black women are often typecast into specific roles, and unfortunately, Shonda Rhimes’ shows are no exception.
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I want to dare you to think not only about the Black women in need of a safe space, but the Black children exploring for one too.
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This question is on the top of Black women’s minds every time they decide to start exercising more.
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As living alone during the pandemic continues, reading has become almost impossible because my mind is filled with so much noise--years of buried trauma, guilt, and shame working its way upward.
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Are there places (outside of Africa) where black women are respected and seen as beautiful?
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Years ago, I knew myself. When I was a child, I felt solid and still. I felt like me. I didn’t care about facades or about wearing the kind of mask Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote about in his poem “We Wear The Mask”. In his poem, he wrote about the mask our ancestors wore to survive, assimilate, and cope with being members of the marginalized race. As I grew in age, I ironically regressed in wisdom and adopted a persona akin to the mask Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote about in his poem. Hints of this mask appeared in my life in many ways; among them, my physical appearance.
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“Mommy, why can’t my hair be down and straight like yours?” With a sad face, those were the piercing words that one of my three-year-old twin daughters asked me, as her sister gazed at me for an honest reply.
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Beyonce’s much anticipated visual album was released for streaming on Disney+ on July 31, 2020. (Isn’t everything Beyonce does “much anticipated”?) Anyway, as usual I was late to the party and finally sat down to watch it this weekend.
Read MoreDo you have a friend that’s always acting like a “white girl?” She’s the one that shows up at mimosa Sunday wearing cowboy boots instead of stilettos.
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A memory that haunts me at night, is from my middle school days in English. I was in eighth grade and at this time of my life my hair was done by my mom and my attire was a school board mandated uniform. On this particular day, we were watching a movie in English. My teacher did the spill about how this movie tied into our lesson. An interesting fact about this class is that my English teachers gave us assigned seats. So, sometimes I was lucky enough to be sat by my friends or assigned by someone she thought I would not talk to. After she gave us the spill, she went to the back of the room to turn out the lights. A boy in my class turned to another boy and said, “where did Brooklyn go?” This was a joke that was used often in school.
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Alopecia. Just typing the word still gives me chills. It’s as if my body has a visceral reaction to reject the diagnosis, because it seems so...permanent.
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