My mother used to introduce me as the “athletic one”. My eldest sister was “the pretty one”.

My mother tried everything to make sure that people thought I was prettier. She forced me to wear traditionally girly clothes and did not like that I was so athletic. She wanted me to be a princess, but I just wanted to be me. She would tell me that because I was darker-skinned I needed to “soften my appearance”. Within the Black non-Community, there is a serious color complex- the lighter you are the better- and even as a child I knew this. I was the darker skinned of three girls. I never heard that I was beautiful. What I was told was “You’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl” or “You would be so pretty if you weren’t so dark.” Those comments were enough to make me hate myself- and they did. Years later. I engaged in behavior that I thought would make me prettier- promiscuity and bulimia. Lying and hiding.

I do not like boxes- being put in one. Boxes hide the whole. They force people to only look at a small portion of a person, and that is damaging to the soul. I look at my daughter and want more for her. I want her to be herself with out fear. I don’t want her my birracial child to have to choose one of two races. I don’t want her to be the short one, or the fat one or even the smart one because those tags are so limiting.

What we tell our children is so important. We may not see the results right away, but words have a way of burrowing down deep inside and festering away at one’s self-confidence. There are so many things in this world… Continue reading →