Sorry, Sorry, Sorry.

Hey guys. I know its been awhile since you've heard from me and I'm so sorry for that. I've been extremely busy with exams and the ridiculous amounts of study time that accompany them. But school is out now so I have a lot more free time. However, I will be attending a college program for a month so who knows how much I'll be able to post while I'm away. I'm shooting for weekly posts, though! I'm also really trying to put some serious effort into maintaining this blog from now on and turning it into a real brand, so keep your fingers crossed for me and the moves I'm trying to make to do so. Anyways, that's all for now! Thanks for reading and be on the lookout for a new post very soon!

P.S. Comment any suggestions or ideas for possible topics for future posts!

Black. Girls. Rock.

It's clearly no secret that my posts have been few and far between over the last couple of months, and I sincerely apologize for my lack of presence here. The fiery passion that serves as the fuel for my writing has waned to mere embers lately. However, watching Black Girls rock tonight inspired me in a way I didn't know was possible.

I know that I'm not alone in the struggles I face as a Black girl in today's society, but it's always easy to forget that my heroes struggled as well. They weren't always these trailblazing game changers. They were awkward, shy, lonely Black girls like me at one point. So to see these same women- Black women- standing on that stage and putting my life into words? It reignited that fire in me. A great, roaring fire of passion that turned into an intense desire to pursue my dreams with a vengeance.

I saw teenagers in my age bracket being honored for their passions and I just knew that I could be honored, too. I reminded myself that I have what it takes to make an impact on my community. Not in spite of my Blackness, but because of it.

No longer will I shy away from voicing my opinions and being assertive when necessary because I don't want to be seen as that loud, bossy Black girl. As Michelle Obama so eloquently put it, " [I'm not] bossy. I'm confident. [I'm not] loud, [I'm] a young woman with something important to say."

Black girls, our voices matter. Our experiences matter. We matter. And we most certainly rock.

Left, Right.

    Left, right. One foot in front of the other. That’s what the little Black girl thinks as she walks past what remains of the tomato she’d dodged only moments before. She didn’t want that bloody red on her white dress. But she’ll take the tomato splatter over the rocks any day. God, she hates when they throw rocks. All she wants to do is go to school. A school that can give her the best education possible, even if it is with White kids. She’s really smart for her age, already reading books from the colored library down the street. So she knows that the word painted on the wall right above her head is far from a compliment.

    “Nigger.” The people in the crowd call her that, too. She doesn’t know why. Her mama says that these people are just scared of her and what she can do. Scared of what, though? She wouldn’t hurt a fly, but the people in that crowd wouldn’t think twice about tearing her into pieces. That’s why those big men walk with her everyday. To make sure she’s safe. They can’t protect her from the words, though. And those hurt the most.

    Fast forward to a time in which this ignorance shouldn’t persist. The year is 2015. A Black girl that’s not so little roams the halls of her predominantly White school. She smooths out the nonexistent wrinkles of her white sundress. No need to give them something else to talk about. They can say a lot about her- and they do- but they can never call her sloppy. The rocks are verbal assaults now; the same taunt whispered behind her in class when she talks with a teacher about her recent letter from Harvard.

    “Affirmative action.” No one thinks she’s smart enough to receive a letter like that on just merit alone. Not the Black girl. Her grandmother tells her not to worry about them, but being strong is hard. All she wants is to go to school. A school that will give her the best education possible, so that one day, she can prove everyone wrong. But until she can claw her way out of this place that’s become her personal hell, she has to keep moving with her head held high. Left, right. One foot in front of the other.

Just a little something I wrote based on Norman Rockwell's painting, "The Problem We All Live With.' Would love your thoughts!

This Angry Black Girl Stereotype Needs to End Now

To say I have a bad temper would be a terrible, terrible understatement. I have an awful temper. However, I've mastered the art of seething in silence, so no one worries about any episodes from me. I make it a point to keep my composure when I'm angry because I think public outbursts are tacky. That's just me, though.

So why is it on the few occasions where I decide to speak my mind, even in a calm manner, I'm labeled as an angry black girl? Shoot, why am I labeled as an angry black girl before I even open my mouth to respond to something that might have provoked me to anger?

An instance that captures my ire perfectly is one that makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it. I was one of perhaps ten black girls to attend this mock trial program in Washington, D.C. this past summer. One of the white girls said "nigga" and instead of apologizing, she said that her friends were fine with her saying the word and that she thought we would be as well, since we didn't seem like the ghetto type to take off our hoops and fight.

I was honestly speechless. Was that really how people viewed me and others like me? I've never worn hoops in my life. I've also never been involved in a physical altercation. My entire family is Black, but I was still raised to believe that fighting is tacky. I'm probably the last person who would ever be seen "taking off my hoops to beat someone down."

Anyways, the situation was handled, as two of our camp leaders were Black girls who knew exactly what to do. They gathered us together in a room and told us how we couldn't do anything but be better than that girl in trial- which we were- because any negative reactions would reinforce that angry Black girl stereotype. However, the incident is still imprinted in my memory to this day.

I am so much more than an angry Black girl. I am smart, loyal, ambitious, and an entire slew of other adjectives that have nothing to do with my skin color. Why can't the world see me like in that light instead?


Would love to hear your thoughts, please comment!

Yeah, My Feelings Get Hurt, Too.

Okay, so this post doesn't have anything to do with being a Black female in today's society. It is solely about me- someone who just so happens to be a Black female in today's society- and my issues. I'm utilizing the diary portion of my blog title more than the "Token Black Girl" part, so please bear with me.

I've mentioned my abandonment issues on here before, but I did not realize how much my issues with my absentee parents and uninterested sisters have impacted interactions with other people until today. I honestly have no idea how to have healthy relationships with people because I'm terrified that they'll leave me if I'm too much of a burden.

A prime example would be my friendship (if I can even still call it that) with someone I think of as a big sister. When I first started talking to this girl before my sophomore year, let's just say I wasn't in the best place emotionally. Having grown up in a household where feelings were not shown and affection was not given all of the time, I clung to the first person who showed me what it was like to have a big sister. I was ecstatic to have someone to talk to about the feelings I was too scared to tell anyone else. Then, she went off to college. Texts went unanswered, our monthly phone calls became few and far between, and she was caught up with her new friends on the rare occasions we did see each other. In my mind, I was losing the one person I had. I honestly still feel that way now.

Now, most individuals would either tell the other person how they feel or dissolve the friendship, but not me. I couldn't do either. I kept texting, kept calling, kept trying to make plans that almost always fell through. I also kept my mouth shut. Every single person knew how I was feeling, but the person who I wanted to notice the most. I couldn't tell her, though. What if she decided I wasn't worth the trouble and said the words I dreaded to hear: "I don't have time for you anymore." Nope, it was just better to stay quiet and take what I could get. I didn't want to lose my big sister.

How does this relate to the present day a year later? Well, I actually told her how I felt today. Except I couldn't make myself say everything I wanted to because the fear of losing my only confidant. I didn't fully express my irrational anger at her for letting me be vulnerable around her only for it to seem like she's casting me aside. I didn't fully express the hurt I feel every time she doesn't text back has to rush off the phone to do something else.

That's why I'm writing this blog post. Because it's almost 10:30 on a school night and I'm sobbing while typing this because I don't know how else to express how hurt my feelings are and I just want my big sister back. Too bad I'm too emotionally stunted to tell her that.

If Me Loving Myself Makes You Mad...Stay Mad.

Well, well, well. We're almost three weeks into 2015 and I'm just now posting. Blame my affinity for naps and almost non-existent attention span. Anyways, I didn't want to be cliche and write a "new year, new me" post, but I'm going to do it and y'all will deal. 2014 was such an eye-opening year for me in terms of how I view myself and those around me. It was an emotionally trying time, particularly the last few months, but I can honestly say something amazing happened during that period: I learned to love myself.

I've always been rather vain as a defense mechanism against the crippling sense of inadequacy I still sometimes feel. However, lately, I've found myself admiring the things about myself that I used to desperately try to "fix." My hair, my dark skin, my Nigerian name. All of those things make me the amazing individual I now know I am, and I refuse to keep company with anyone who disputes that.

My hair? It defies gravity and has a versatile nature that I've just begun to explore.
My skin? It gives a whole new meaning to the old saying, "The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice."
My name?  It represents a unique part of my heritage that I'm still discovering.

I'm no longer going to make self-deprecating comments about myself to make appease others. I am incredibly smart, classically beautiful, and unapologetically Black. If you don't like that I'm acknowledging that, just know that I don't care. I won't set myself on fire to keep you warm.