Tell me again about how I am pretty for a black girl
Will you validate my existence, stranger?
Tell me more about how you know that I must have a really big ‘booty’
Educate me on how you have never slept with a black girl
Am I an experience?
A free ticket to Alton Towers, a weekend go-karting, parachuting in the District?
You believe that I am going to reply to your statement with ‘YOU are in for a treat’
Please tell me about how much you love, love, love Jamaican food
We weren’t having that discussion but you think I’m going to be really impressed
Wow, you are cultured!
Inform me about how my large lips must mean that I give great head.
My brown features, my brown skin, my brown identity
Is not here for your sexual experimentation
We’ve become caricatures for societies fantasies
White girls want our features, white boys want us to twerk in bed but white society won’t defend us.
When I was younger, I used to think that being told I was an attractive black girl was somewhat of a compliment. A competition that I had never entered and yet somehow won. My own insecurities at that awkward teenage time stopped me from questioning them. Wow, really am I? I always felt awkward in my skin, I wanted my nose slimmer, my lips smaller, my skin lighter… so being told I was pretty for a black girl was a triumph surely. Or just a way to keep me in line. Would that mean that I would never be as pretty as a white girl? I’ve finally grown comfortable in the skin that I am in. The skin my mother coated me in. This thick and yet fragile, strong and agile brown skin.