Representation Really Does Matter

A few nights ago, I watched the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show in the hopes of getting enough motivation to go to the gym, just like I do every year. I tune in, hate myself, eat healthy and workout for a month at most, then go back to my normal life fraught with naps and fast food. Why? Well, of course because my laziness kicks in again after awhile, but mostly due to the fact that I can always write off my inability to look like a model as not being a skinny white girl or "exotic" foreigner. Year after year, the only Angels to grace my screen were pale, foreign, or really light-skinned Black girls. No one was darker than a paper bag.

However, someone new took the runway this year.

I fell in love instantly and rushed to Google to learn more about this stunning young woman who shared the same skin tone I did. Her name is Maria Borges, and she's twenty-two year-old model from the South African country of Angola. (Apparently, she'd appeared in the 2013 fashion show, but I must have been turned away from the TV when she was on, because I definitely would have noticed her). I just could not believe that  there was a Victoria's Secret Angel who looked like me. That moment changed me. I didn't have an excuse anymore.

I've shared my issues with colorism on here, but I didn't really talk about how important it is for Black girls with darker skin to see themselves in the media. It's already enough of a struggle to see any women of color, but dark ones are few and far between. Little dark-skinned girls need to be able to see themselves on TV and in magazines. We need to know that we're also viewed as beautiful.


I could wax poetic about this topic, but I think this gifset of Janelle Monae, the epitome of a carefree Black girl, during an interview with Queen Latifah, says it all:

Representation matters.

My Truth

Well, it sure has been awhile since I've posted. I wish I had a better excuse than lack of motivation but that's all it is. However, I just had to voice my opinions on recent events in America. My heart is just heavy with all of the injustices happening to Black people in this country. I plan on marrying a Black man- yeah, I've seen the light- and eventually raising a Black child in this country. How am I supposed to do this knowing that they will have targets on their backs simply because of the color of their skin?

These events have made me realize just how many of my White "friends" view the issue of race in America. Now I know that they don't view me as Black when we're joking and laughing about trivial matters because I fit in. I was one of them. But after the terrible decision not to indict Darren Wilson for the murder of Mike Brown, I found my voice again. I wasn't quiet and docile like they wanted me to be, and no one really appreciated my "sudden change." People began to disrespect me and invalidate my opinions on race; people who I thought were my friends.

It hurt me to my core. I pride myself on being practically emotionless, but seeing these people I trusted with my life reveal their true colors brought an excruciating pain I never want to experience again. It opened my eyes. Yes, this blog is called "Diary of a Token Black Girl," but I never knew that the label I'd halfheartedly given myself was how people really viewed me. To them, I am the sassy Black friend who dresses like them, talks like them, but can get "ghetto" in  a heartbeat. I am a trope, a source of entertainment, a monkey in Lilly Pulitzer. I am their go-to person in order to hear "angry black girl" rants, but I'm not invited for a sleepover. I am the example of their Black friend when they want to justify their use of the word "nigga." I am a token Black girl.

Twice As Good

I'm a hardcore overachiever.

I have no problems admitting that. But, that trait isn't inherent; I didn't just start pushing myself for no reason. It's a product of circumstance.

For starters, my parents not being around for the majority of the last fifteen years had more influence on my work ethic than I'd like to admit. As a child, I hoped that if I impressed them by being the best at everything, they would actually take in interest in me. I was wrong. If anything, my accomplishments were never enough. To them, I could always do better. My peers and teachers saw me as a bright young girl with so many achievements under her belt, but I didn't see myself that way. I felt mediocre. I still do.

Also, growing up  forced me to realize that I was going to have to do more than I'd previously thought to be successful in this world. I'm a female and I'm black. That's two strikes against me. If you watch Scandal, you've probably watched the scene where Olivia's father gives her the dressing down of a lifetime. I won't go into details of Papa Pope's pretty amazing monologue, but one thing he said resonated with me. While berating Olivia for being foolish enough to allow herself to be a mistress, Papa Pope reminded Olivia that she would have to put in twice as much work to get half as far as her white counterparts, something he'd clearly drilled into her as a child.

Those words reminded me of remarks I'd heard while growing up. I didn't get the exact same lecture, but the underlying message was always present when I would get in trouble for participating in some foolish activity that my friends had talked me into doing. My grandma would make some comment along the lines of, "You know you can't do everything they can." I brushed those words off at the time, but I'm now realizing just how much truth they hold. I can't do everything my white friends can. I have to be more conscious of my actions. I have to be smarter. I just have to be better.

The Power of Underestimation

I believe in the power of underestimation.

As a young, African American woman from the South, I’m not expected to go far in life. Just a few weeks ago, while I was attending a predominantly white law camp in Washington, D.C., only a fraction of my peers believed that I would succeed in my efforts to win mock trial. People assumed that I was dumb because of my Southern accent, as subtle as it may be. In fact, a few individuals wondered how I was smart enough to get into the program without the help of Affirmative Action, a practice with which I strongly disagree.

I believe in proving people wrong. I am capable of doing anything someone else can, if I put my mind to it. Yes, I’m black. Yes, I’m a girl. Yes, I live in the Deep South. But, I go to one of the top magnet schools in the state, taking nothing but AP and advanced honors classes, all while maintaining a 3.9 GPA. If that isn’t beating a stereotype, I don’t know what is.

I believe that stereotypes can make or break a person, and I’m choosing to let mine make me. No one- and I mean, no one- holds the keys to my future except for me. My strength comes from trying to break through the barriers society has placed on me. My drive stems from the desire to prove all of my naysayers wrong. Their underestimation motivates me to be the best and the brightest, even if I’m the blackest.

Don’t let stereotypes from ignorant people hinder you, because you, and you alone, decide what you can achieve. Don't be offended when people underestimate you. Instead, use it as a tool that catapults you into the next level of success. Let those snap judgements serve as a constant fuel that pushes you to work harder. Remember that mock trial I was talking about? Yeah, I won. Southern accent and all.

The Bluest Eye

I, like a plethora of other dark-skinned little girls everywhere -especially down South- grew up wondering why I couldn't have lighter skin. It is something that I've struggled with ever since elementary school, when I would ask God to give me light skin, long hair, and pretty eyes every night before bed, and each morning I would wake up disappointed.

Middle school brought a whole slew of issues with it, the main one being boys. All around me, I saw my White, Asian, Hispanic, and biracial friends being chased after by guys. You know what they all had in common?  Light skin, long hair, and pretty eyes. Those girls had boys ask them to the movies or school dances, but I didn't. So, I tried everything I could to fit in. I bought the same clothes, shoes, and accessories that my friends wore, and nothing changed besides the numbers in my grandmother's bank account. After many failed attempts at assimilation, I assumed that boys didn't like me because I had dark skin.

Freshman year and the beginning of my sophomore year of high school didn't change my attitude, either. If anything, it made me more bitter and jaded about being a dark-skinned girl in today's society. I just accepted that no one was going to want me for me. I would have to bring something else to the table. My self-esteem was -and still is- so low, that I would take whatever attention a boy would throw my way, good or bad. I mean, I thought dark-skinned girls couldn't afford to be picky.

It wasn't until May of my sophomore year that my outlook began to change. My English teacher told me to read The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, and I realized that my attitude was only doing more harm than good. I haven't fully regained my self-confidence, but I'm in a much better place than I was before. While I still struggle with self-hate from time to time, and I haven't quite broken the habit of avoiding the sun like the plague, I'm slowly -but surely- learning to love my dark skin.

Black Girls Have Eating Disorders, Too.

I've struggled with bulimia since 7th grade. I'm all too familiar with the secrecy and shame that comes along with binging and purging, but what I don't understand is why my struggle with this eating disorder is cast aside as a silly phase because "black girls don't do that."

Whenever I've found the courage to open up with my battle with this disorder, the first reaction is almost always a dismissive eye roll. People don't take me seriously because apparently, eating disorders are only for white girls. I find that belief ridiculous for a number of reasons, but two really stick out:

1. I've been raised around white girls my entire life, so small figures have been a prevailing feature everywhere I turned. 
2. Very few TV shows and movies feature black girls and women, and in the rare occasions that they are portrayed, they're petite and slim.

However, it shouldn't matter whether or not I was raised around white girls, or if I only saw skinny girls on TV. My parents constantly made offhanded comments about the way my clothes clung to my stomach and thighs. My four older sisters are all perfect size 2's and had parades of boys chasing after them. My personal experiences drove me to find comfort in emptying the contents of my stomach right after every family dinner. The fact that I am Black should not be a deciding factor.

What hurts the most about this lack of support is that I now find it hard to admit when I relapse for fear that I'll get another lecture about "loving my curves." There are probably Black girls out there right now who struggle with some type of eating disorder, but choose to hide it because it isn't "natural" for them to engage in that type of behavior. 

And that's sad, y'all. Really sad.

The Average Black Girl

Today I happened to walk downstairs while my mother was watching The Arsenio Hall Show, and a girl named Ernestine Johnson was reciting a poem that caught my attention right away. It's called "The Average Black Girl", and I stopped in my tracks just to listen. 

The poem is centered around a black girl being told that she's not like the rest of her kind, basically. Because, as you know, all black girls are loud and ghetto, so being articulate and well-mannered is something to be admired. I know for a fact that I've been told that I wasn't like most black girls since I have long hair and I enunciate. It bothers me, honestly. 

All black girls are not the same. In case you didn't quite catch that, I'll repeat it: All black girls are not the same. This might come as a shock to some of you, but it's true. Not all of us have weaves, not all of us pop our gum, and not all of us will become teenage mothers.

 But that doesn't make me special, and it sure as hell doesn't make me "whiter." I don't think of myself as any less black just because I don't fall into stereotypes placed on me by society. I still don't pass the paper bag test, my grandparents were sharecroppers, and I still have the curves that dominate women in my culture. Trust me, I'm still black. 

The poem ends on an optimistic note, citing some of our most legendary icons as being the "average black girl." Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth. Ernestine Johnson says, "I'm not the average black girl. I can only aspire to be."

Me, too. Me, too.

Do you like me for me...or do you like me for what you THINK I can do for you?

I like white boys.

I don't have anything against black guys, and I don't discriminate at all, but I just have a thing for white boys. Now, that shouldn't be a problem- I mean, it's 2014 for Christ's sake-but I live in the deep south, where white guys generally don't spare girls like me a second glance. It's gotten to the point where I can't think a boy is cute without a little voice in my head telling me that a guy like him wouldn't even consider dating a girl like me.

BUT, there are the rare-and I do mean rare- occasions in which it seems like I have a shot. That's when the doubt creeps in. I start to wonder if this guy likes me for me, or if he just wants to see what being with a black girl is like. That little voice in my head comes back again; telling me that I'm just an exotic plaything to him, and that he'd never acknowledge me publicly.

Honestly, sometimes it feels like a lost cause. I feel like I'll never be good enough, pretty enough, white enough. I'm black, and proud of it, but where I live, that makes me a last choice no matter what.