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.