Finding myself 

One of my earliest memories as a child was getting my hair braided by my mother. I remember how she took her time with every part and braid like it was some sort of ritual. She always had this smile on her face, a loving warmth passed on from her mother.

She was meticulous in the process; she would wake up early to get materials ready, from the different styles she wanted to do, to the hair color that she wanted. For her, it was a ritual and not a single step was forgotten.

Her soft, wrinkled, hard-working hands were shaky but steady as she calmly gathered my curls. Her hands felt so soft as if she had never worked a day in her life, but I knew how hard she worked. She always looked so calm and collected whenever she did my hair.

“I feel as if I can feel the hand of my mother and her mother guiding me wherever I braid your hair,” she said. She felt rooted in our family traditions and loved by our family whenever she braided my hair. In my family, every young girl learns how to braid hair and all the different parting techniques and patterns. We learned how to keep our hands steady.

Others’ perceptions of hair

 When we take care of each other and our hair, we are honoring our past she would say and tell me how Black women worked magic with their hands by creating beauty from the hardest situation. She told me how our ancestors used braiding as a way to communicate and build community.

“The different styles and unique patterns were what set us apart from other women. It makes us unique. It’s the only thing that is completely ours,” she said.

Though, I never really understood what she meant by magic and beauty. To me, it was just hair, something that set me apart from everyone in my class.

When I looked in the mirror, I did not see beauty; I saw how different it made me.

Everyone in my class had straight blond or brunette hair that fell neatly down their backs, hair that you could run your fingers through with no issue. Meanwhile, my hair was braided, black and thick, and you definitely could not run your fingers through it.

Kids would often ask to touch it as if my hair was a strange object, or they would say things like, “Is it real?" or "Why does it look like that?”

I hated being singled out for something as insignificant as my hair.

I remember asking her why I needed to braid my hair and what was the importance of it.

"When we take care of our hair, we protect it from damage, but it's not just hair. This is a way of life and communication. This is culture. This also keeps us from breaking."

Wanting to fit in

I wanted more than anything to blend in. I wanted to look like the rest of my class, to sound like the rest of my class. Everyone else had a soft voice with almost no accent. Meanwhile, my voice was a little deeper and I pronounced some words differently.

I tried speaking calmly and softly. I trained myself to sound quiet and soft, but it never worked. Others still saw me as too loud, too bold, too confrontational and too much.

Eventually, I learned to shrink myself and to talk less, just so nobody could put a label on me.

Struggle with racial identity

I have always struggled with my identity as a Black woman. Growing up, there were so many racial stereotypes that I felt like I needed to fit into just to be “truly Black.” From a young age, I was told a Black girl was loud, rude, aggressive, malicious and emasculating, and if I did not conform to those stereotypes, I was accused of being white washed or trying to be a white girl. 

I was  expected to be loud or confrontational, and if I wasn’t, I would hear comments like, “You’re so well-behaved for a Black girl” or “Why are you so quiet?” It almost felt like they were praising me for my compliance. It was exhausting to realize many didn’t care to get to know me as a person because they had already formed their opinions before even speaking to me.

Being a Black girl meant I had to be careful with my emotions. I couldn’t show anger or sadness freely because doing so would instantly fit harmful assumptions of an “angry” or “emotional” Black girl. I often felt trapped between fitting into their expectations of how I was supposed to act or behave and being my true self. I learned very early that I could not simply exist as myself because I could be judged or misinterpreted.

This affected me in more ways than one. I felt powerless and ashamed of who I was. Many often assumed that I was a shy person or that I was afraid of them. I wasn’t shy or scared. I was just hyperaware of how I would be perceived if I spoke out. I had a voice but I was too scared to use it. I had opinions, but I didn't want to be labeled as bold or confrontational, so I kept to myself. 

Honestly, I was pathetic, and I knew it. I knew I was not the type of person that cared about people's opinion. I didn’t even like half of those people, and yet, for whatever reason, I wanted them to accept me. I hated myself so much for being like that, but more than anything, I hated that people made me like that. I hated that I had to hide my voice, emotions and opinion because people were too prejudiced. I hated that I couldn't express myself without someone putting a label on me. I hated how easy the kids with lighter skin lives were compared to mine, and I hated myself for thinking like that. I knew what I was going through  wasn’t their fault, but that still didn’t stop me from hating them and the privilege system they represented.

  Effects on self-esteem

I remember staring at myself in the mirror, tracing every curve of my face, the texture of my hair and the tone of my skin. I never thought I was ugly, but I knew in the back of my mind that, if I stood next to someone with lighter skin, I would inevitably be seen as less attractive.

It wasn’t something anyone had to say out loud. I could tell from the backhanding compliments that I received. 

“You’re really pretty for a Black girl.” 

What was meant to be a compliment, was an insult. It implied that all Black girls were ugly i just happened to be the least ugly.

Though I may not have craved attention, I still, however, wanted people to think I was at least beautiful without comparing me to anyone. 

I always felt like I was trying to fit into a beauty standard not meant for me. TV shows, magazines and dolls all told me the same things: lighter skin was prettier. Lighter skin was softer. Lighter skin was better. Over time, I started to believe my darker skin made me uglier, and I hated myself for that.

 Fashion

I had a very complicated relationship with fashion, music and style. I could not just wear the clothes I wanted because I risked fitting into their harmful stereotypes. See Black girls were not soft. Black girls did not like or wear pink, and Black girls differently did not dress cute. Black girls are supposed to dress bold, revealing, seductive and inappropriate, not cute or soft.  

For the longest time, I couldn't wear crop tops or shorts because that meant I was looking for attention. If I wore something bold, I was labeled as “too much”or attention seeking , but if I wore something simple, I was not Black enough, as if there was a certain way a Black girl should dress. The other kids could wear short, crop tops and tank tops without much concern. For me, the same clothes were seen as  inappropriate, too grown or too revealing simply because of my race. It was exhausting learning that my body was not perceived with the same innocence as lighter color girls.

Beauty standards

As a child, have you ever been in a situation where you were trying to make friends, and you felt like you didn’t belong? For me, that's what trying to fit the beauty standards is like. It felt like I was trying to insert myself into something that was clearly not made for me. 

I’d look at the girls that everyone called beautiful and wonder what the difference between me and them was. Their skin was lighter, and mine was darker. They are not looked at with curiosity or asked to have their hair touched. All they had to do was smile and be accepted, and I wanted that more than anything.

Make-up was a struggle and source of frustration. See I’m not just Black; my skin is dark skin and that, in itself, is a struggle. I couldn't find the right shade. How do you express the frustration that comes with trying to find the right shade of foundation or concealer? 

The darker the skin, the challenging it is to feel included. Even when I thought I had found the perfect shade, I would be asked, “Why is your foundation so dark?” “ ou should try a lighter shade that'll make you look prettier. Make-up was another reminder that society did not see my skin color as standard. It was a constant reminder I will never be like those girls no matter how hard I try. 

Hiding my authentic self

I learned how  to keep my head down and draw as little attention to myself as possible. I laughed and spoke quietly, moving carefully. I thought that if I could become that quiet, shy girl people would pay less attention to my skin and me as a person. It never worked, though, and the comments never stopped. 

Imagine someone telling you,  “You would be so pretty if you were just a little lighter” or “You’re really pretty too bad you’re so dark.” I remember thinking how sorry I was  for being too dark.    

The worst part was that I genuinely resented being Black. I started to believe that, if I was lighter, my life would be better. For the longest time, I truly hated myself and the burden of my skin color. It felt like a curse not a blessing. My skin color was associated with death, poverty and bad behavior. I couldn't even walk into public spaces without feeling embraced or less than the people there.

Finding confidence

It took years of self-hatred for me to find myself. I had to undo the mindset that I was less than the other girls, that I had to fit in with the other girls. Gaining confidence for me did not happen overnight. I had to break the mentality of needing to be a different skin color. I slowly realized every struggle I had with my hair, appearance and skin color was not a reflection of my worth but an illusion of what the world had tried to make me believe. It took a while for me to understand what my mother meant about Black women being magic.

I started to celebrate what I felt so ashamed of. I wore my hair in braids more, and I became less self-conscious, putting less focus on how others perceived me. I started to learn there were those who valued my voice. I learned I could raise my head up, look people in the eye and not hide. I learned to genuinely like the outspoken side of me. I surrounded myself with people who looked like me and accepted me.

For me, confidence came slowly. It came in small victories like looking in the mirror and seeing beauty where I once saw flaws. It came from learning about my past, history, culture and those that came before me. I realized I was not the only one who struggled with identity issues, and now I know I am not alone. I began to appreciate that I carry generations of resilience, creativity and pride with me. 

I am not perfect, and it took awhile for me to understand that perfection isn’t the point. What matters is growth, honesty and accepting that there will be days when I don’t like myself. What matters is the slow, steady process of becoming my true self. There will be times where I will have to remind myself of how far I've come, from being too afraid to speak authentically without shrinking myself to make others feel comfortable. If my younger self could see me now, she would probably stare at me with wild eyes or faint, not because I've become someone unrecognizable but because I've become the person she always hoped to become. I like to think that I became strong and confident for both of us. 

Now that I think about it, I really appreciate those moments I had with my mother. If I did not have her, I truly don’t think I would have come this far. I understand now that she wasn’t just teaching me how to take care of my curls. She was teaching me how to be strong, resilient, gentle and confident in myself. I'm still growing and learning. I know she will always be there to teach me and keep me steady when I start shaking.