Being black is just what I was born to be.
As a black girl I never did learn how to double-dutch like the rest of the girls, those heifers wouldn’t even let me throw the rope, but my Twill-lil-Leet game was tight. In my family acting a fool in any pubic place was an automatic ass whipping. I dreaded getting my hair washed on Saturday nights because that meant waking up early Sunday morning to get it pressed. One pop upside the head for not being still and a burned ear gristle later I always came out cute. Grant it, my forehead was shiny enough that if you threw me up in the air I would be sunshine.
With that said, being a black woman has presented it’s struggles. I never realized that speaking direct would stereo type me as being an angry black woman for the rest of my life. As a mother raising two black boys I’ll admit I was heated when my husband and I had to speak with them about what to do when encountering a police officer. I didn’t bite my tongue when my supervisor tried to throw $50 words at me because she felt like I was too stupid to comprehend them and still pursue what I wanted to do.
However, in spite of it all, I love my blackness and everything that comes with it. It tickles me that people actually pay for things that I’m born with (i.e. full lips, curves, and caramel skin tone), but I understand because I love those things too.
For me, being black means adding value to this world without changing who I am as a person. It means being able to laugh at the white lady who thought her likeness for black people was a perk in her character. Being black means telling my boys they can be anything in this world they want to be and mean it. It means showing the kids in the hood that there’s more to life than just being on the block. Being black means that if you tell me I can’t, I’m going to show you I already have. It means being humble enough to let a fool be a fool, yet bold enough to speak your mind when it’s time. Being black is beautiful, because being beautiful is me.