Dark Girls

Oprah premiered a documentary a few days ago called “Dark Girls”. It is a documentary about black women who share their stories of growing up dark skinned. It discusses self-esteem issues which women of darker skin face. (Read not ALL.)

And well, it made me sick to my stomach. Not because I felt bad for these women but because I felt bad that they even allowed their dark skin to create self-esteem issues.

You aren’t beautiful because you’re dark skinned? Um, OK ... what freaking planet are you living in? I hope that many people watch it and start making some choices. You are either going to go your whole life believing these silly things or start making damn sure that everyone you encounter never believe these things.

I grew up in an African household. We were raised very differently from many of my American friends. In my house, our dark skin was beauty. In their house, lighter skin was beautiful. It was so beautiful in their opinion that many purposely bleached their skin to have lighter skin. I MEAN, COME ON!

In my house, my mom begged us not to relax (chemically straighten) our hairs. In their house, it wasn’t even a choice. This kinky hair of mine was not cute. I did not have good hair, I was told. In my house, good hair was your natural hair. There were a lot of differences I saw growing up but that isn’t the point of this post.

I remember being made fun of as a kid for having kinky hair and dark skin. I was told that my mom must have burnt me in the oven/toaster because I was so black. I was also told that I was black as night and that you wouldn’t even see me if it was not for my white teeth. I remember a guy telling me in middle school that he couldn’t like me like a girlfriend because I wasn’t lighter skinned. I remember being told that I would be so much prettier if I was light skinned.

I won’t lie and say that my little girl feelings were not hurt. It is the reason that at 12 years old I decided I was getting a relaxer. My mom could not stop me. I wish she slapped me silly.

But for some reason, I use to stare in the mirror and admire my skin tone. I really, really loved my skin tone. I loved that if I had a bruise you couldn’t see it. I loved that my skin turned a gorgeous red when I was in the sun. I loved that I did not get burnt if I was in the sun for too long. And I think it had a lot to do with growing up in a household where our skin tone was beautiful.

And then in high school, I began being told that I was pretty for a dark skinned girl. Whatever that meant. Pretty for a black girl? No, I’m just pretty, biatch.

It is a shame that many women’s self-esteem have suffered due to this ridiculousness. Because that is what it is. Ridiculous! I mean, really? You’re going to allow what others say/believe make you feel a certain way? You are the only person who is in control of the way you feel. Why would you let anyone control that? It is sad, really.

Stand in the mirror. See yourself. Whatever color you are. Stare at that person and say, I’m a damn goddess. You’re the only one you’re ever going to be, so be damn sure to love YOU.

No one, I mean no one can ever tell me that my dark skin isn’t beautiful. My mom told me it is. Sean tells me it is. And better yet, I know it is. So there! My middle school and high school “friends” I’m sure are still trying to figure it out. Good thing I knew all along.