When Silence Speaks by Erica Hughes

I. Love. You.

My first recollection of those words being uttered by mother to me was when I was eighteen years old. I was eighteen and standing in her bedroom saying goodbye. As I reflect on it now I wonder if she'd said it sooner and more frequently, if she'd put it into action, would I have been so anxious and determined to set out on my own with no plans of looking back just four months out of high school?

As I challenged myself to consider the lies I had been told throughout my life I realize the one that haunted me most, that shaped my life and the decisions made for it was never implicitly spoken. And for me it cements the power of silence. Preoccupied with various health issues and life resentments that I believe stemmed from being a teenage mother, my mother's aversion to expressing anything resembling parental affection or interest during my years of growing up left me feeling unlovable. For most of my childhood it fostered a belief in me that I was incapable of giving, and most definitely receiving, love from anyone.

But then after some time I met someone special. It helped me realize that I didn't have to be my mother, that her destiny didn't have to be my own. In no way, shape or form did I want to be her when I learned that I was pregnant with each of my sons. With my pregnancies and their births I resolved to do things differently in my household. When the doctors placed my sons in my arms I promised each of them that they'd never have to wonder if they were loved or wanted. It is a promise that I've kept every day of our lives. And now that they are older and having reached the ages when I was crippled with such doubt about my importance, my value and worth, I see happiness, confidence and love radiating from my children. Now I see three words and all that they embody that I starved for as a child flow freely in my life as a woman, friend, and most importantly mother.

Maybe Beauty is Overrated by Somikazi Tom

So last weekend I took a 12-hour long bus trip home, got picked up and had to drive another 2.5 hours to get to my rural home in Maclear, KatKop, only to arrive to work and early morning rising. Needless to say, my physical appearance was really just not a priority at any point when I was there, and on Sunday morning I wake up at 06:00 am to go prepare food for my brother who is currently going through his introduction into manhood (Initiation school).  

I got out of bed, put on a sweater and sweatpants over my pyjamas (it’s really cold back home now in winter, it’s in between mountains and not far from the Maloti Mountains of Lesotho), put on my Uggs and headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When I got there, my mom, dad and aunt were up already having themselves cups of coffee. My dad looked at me as I walked in with the biggest smile and said “molo mamGqwashu” (Morning, mamGqwashu – my clan name, and a term of endearment from him) and I responded smiling “molo tata” (Morning dad). He walked over to give me a hug, and my mom said mockingly “It’s so nice having a father”. We laughed and I proceeded to making my coffee.

They carried on chatting and I joined in on the conversation. We sat around the table drinking our coffee, then my mom got up to prepare some porridge for us. As she was getting up, my dad took out his phone and I continued chatting with my aunt. Next thing I know there is a camera flashing in my face. My immediate response was, “Why are you taking pictures of me so early in the morning and I’m looking so crusty?”so I started ducking and diving, and was like, “Okay well let me fix myself a little”. He stopped and said to me “there’s no need to fix yourself, you fine as you are right now”

I responded, “but the picture won’t look nice, because I won’t be looking my greatest”

My dad replied, “I don’t like these things of your guys, all of this stuff you put on. Nibe nijija imilomo apha (you twisting your mouths – Pouting-) and your endless posing.  I think that you’re your most beautiful when you’re in your most natural self, when you’re yourself, that’s why I’m taking the picture now cause that’s how I like to remember you”.

So I then sat there, without smiling, and just looked at the camera, he took the picture and was very happy with the outcome. I still thought I looked crusty as hell, but he was happy and I could continue with my morning.

Later on in the week, having done another 12-hour trip back to Johannesburg on Monday evening, I was reading blog entries on black beauty standards and was listening to this song by Robert Glasper Ft. Musiq Soulchild and Chrisette Michele “Ah Yeah” on repeat. I mean all of this was just igniting the space to write this piece, which then reminded me of my interface with my dad.

This interface with my dad struck a deeper chord in me than just the outward appearance in its rawness. It, combined with interrogating my own beauty ideals and understandings, brought me into a deeper interface about the term beautiful/beauty. I ask myself the question continuously:

What is beautiful and why do I want to be called beautiful if everyone is beautiful?

Why must I be adorned with those compliments when everyone is fitting of the compliment?  

I mean I cannot answer those questions at the moment, because I too am still doing some soul searching. However maybe you can help me answer them. When we talk about transcending what we have been taught in terms of how we understand ourselves, does that not mean how we re-learn and re-shape our mind space is just as vital as how we reconceive the world? I infer from this that we should then be exiting the frames and language of beauty -- we create another language more fitting for what we are trying to imagine and thus live. Maybe I’m crazy and have psychoanalyzed this too much, but then again maybe I am not!

Blackness is political. Beauty is political. Femininity is political. Geography is political. Sexuality is political. The whole idea of living as a black female is political; thus our identities are layered and convoluted concepts of who we are to ourselves and what we mean in the world.

Now the black female standards of physical beauty are conceived of in different ways based on location, cultural exposure, class, the private space and levels of agency. We know that in the public spaces, the black feminine physique has been kidnapped and reformed to fit the mould of “genuine mainstream European beauty” standards. It has then transcended to a place of appropriation, by the mainstream culture again to fit a new mould of the “exotic” standard of beauty.

“They” (all those of us whom assimilate and accept this culture) who have this arrogance and entitlement to the black feminine body and what it is, accept this language and thus recreate even when we are “Woke”.  The reality is that not every black girl has curves, not every black girls has ass, not every black girl has dark chocolate clear skin, not every black girl can grow a large ass, not every black girl can grow something that seems as simple as hair, not every black girl can dance, not every black can bare a corpus amount of children with their wide hips, not every black girl has wide hips to bare those children! My point is it’s a pool of soooooooooooo much physical difference that cannot be covered in just one blog post, so why is it that we continue to focus on the word and language of beauty?  

I am interested in authenticity. I am interested in the black girls’ soul. I am interested in demolishing all those lies about the Black girls beauty through penetrating their spirit and reviving it without having to talk about their physical appearance. I want to talk about how enough they are, how great they can be, how they can be whomever they want in the black and white community. I want to dispel the lies of beauty, because there is no one way to the ideals of “beauty” we can argue till we are blue in the face, “beauty” is based on what we see and how we see it, if we can see physical beauty we can see physical ugliness. The two don’t exist without the other.  If we accept the concepts of beauty, It means we agree and accept that there are ugly black girls and is this something we want to accept?

For the most part I really like the word beauty and beautiful, I have often found myself saying I prefer being called beautiful than hot. But the more I have come to understand myself and the kind of woman I would like to be, I have come to question what beauty actually means and how I want to raise my daughter one day.

I can accept that for now, I don’t really like that I don’t really like that it has come to be the one of the significant factors in how I see myself and other black girls. I don’t like how it has given people the authority to determine who is and who isn’t. I don’t like the fact that for many young black girls it has been a determining factor, in our black communities, whether you are given a chance or not. I don’t like that it has had so much power in who I am because I am more than my face and my physical body.

What I don’t know as yet is how to get around the term and language of beauty -- how to re-develop my mind heart and soul to speak outside of the physical focus more on the spiritual being. I am unsure how I will relay this this to my daughters one day; I am unsure how to relate this to people in general. One of these days I hope to figure it out, and if not I will pass it on for others to do so; beauty is overrated and we need to find a way to underrate it.

Somikazi Tom is a blogger, academic and black girl who is passionate about youth development through economic upliftment. 

Short, Fat & Ugly by Torri Oats

I was around 14 or 15 when those very words were used to describe me. It was from a boy whom I’d met at a basketball game. He was actually one half of a set of identical twins, but I preferred him. He humored me to my face but voiced his real opinion behind my back. Through small town gossip, his comments eventually found their way to my ears. I wasn’t sure how to react to his words. I have never been much of a cryer when it came to my own life, so my reaction was more of disbelief. He planted weeds that continued to sprout for years to come.

His criticism came at an age when I was the least comfortable in my own skin. My body was transitioning from girlhood to a womanhood, and I was coping with its changes. When I looked in the mirror I saw a chubby face, boring eyes, uninvited pimples and a butt that was too big. I had breasts that didn’t seem to belong with the rest of my body and I’d started growing hair in places that I had to shave. Those were just the physical changes. I was also socially awkward — a shy, athletic nerd who only felt at home on a basketball court. Around boys all of my insecurities were magnified a thousand times. I worried they saw me as I saw myself.

Although I struggled with a negative self-image, I had never been that harsh. I knew I was short, but I thought of myself as “athletically built”. Though my face was not perfection, I didn’t consider myself “ugly”. I could see the good which offset the negative. But his comments cut me to my core and made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wondered if others thought the same thing and if I was the one who was lying to myself?  

His painfully seared words became a springboard for a journey that began with self-loathing and later transformed into self-love. However, I didn’t wake up one morning and decide the words he spoke were lies. Rather, it was a series of twists and turns that led me to discover my own truth.

In the immediate aftermath, I was determined to fix some of my “flaws”. I began chugging Slim Fast until my mother discovered my secret stash hidden in my favorite reading spot  — my closet. I obsessively washed, scrubbed and moisturized my face. I was raised to discard the noise and lies people told me, but it was easier said than done.   

For years, I randomly thought of the words “short, fat and ugly”. I have never worn a size larger than six, but it didn’t matter. When I studied myself, my stomach always seemed larger than it was, my thighs fatter and my butt thicker. In my eyes I was still what he labeled me as.

As I’ve matured, I’ve maintained a commitment to fitness and health. Regular exercise and clean living are priorities. My body has changed as I’ve filled out in certain areas and slimmed down in others. My face shed its baby fat and my skin is long past its weird hormonal stage. There’s nothing I can do about my height, but I carry myself with an outward confidence that matches the inside.

Years later, he winded up getting a job where my mom worked. He walked into her office one day and worked my name into their conversation. He got nowhere. A reliable source told me that he said, “I heard Torri looks good now.” I smiled. His more recent assessment of me was simply an ego boost. As I began to love myself more and more, I realized that I didn’t need him to validate me nor did I require his stamp of approval.

The woman that I am is not defined by anyone’s standard of beauty. The woman that I am is one who is confident in her own skin, embraces her assets and flaws, and continues to live her life on her own terms.

Recognize Lies by Dale Francis-Forteau

Chances are, if you’re an African-American woman, you have been bombarded all of your life with all sorts of nonsense masquerading as facts about your heritage, physical beauty, intelligence and contributions black people have made to American history, or your general overall worth to American society. This is UNACCEPTABLE. No other culture is so beset upon with such vehement disrespect as our culture. We’re looked upon as a race of people who serve no real purpose in this country, and generally speaking, we’re portrayed to the world as worthless, baby-makers or criminals who speak the language of “Ebonics” and collect public assistance, rather than pursue education that’ll result in gainful employment or businesses ownership.

It’s believed that we have no inner drive to contribute anything but problems to American society. The full reality of our lives is far from these unfortunate stereotypes. These lies are perpetuated and manipulated so often by outsiders to our community that even people who come to the US from other countries arrive with a perverted vision of the average African-American person. It’s past time we right these wrongs committed against us.

Being an African-American female, I can personally speak to the unjust, mean-spirited lies about my personage that are so constant I have learned to put up my own walls to the abusive talk in order to exist here. These walls are my vibranium armor (Black Panther reference 😏) against the persistent unfair and unjust pummeling my character takes from ignorant, ill-informed people who don’t even know me.

To discuss every unjust belief about African-American womanhood would not be something totally accomplished in an article, so I’ll just touch on the subject of our beauty. The African-American woman was blessed with as much beauty, and in my personal opinion, more beauty than other races of women. That’s not to diminish the beauty other women naturally possess, but I happen to personally feel that our full lips, curvy hips, wavy/curly hair, almond-shaped or doe-like eyes, high cheekbones, and hourglass shape have been so often imitated and plastically duplicated to the point of people believing they do it better than God.

To this I say, “Not so fast!” Let’s open our eyes to how we’ve been spoon-fed lies about our physical beauty, ladies. I was raised in a family that taught all girls that our God-given physical beauty is but one reason to walk with our heads held high, no matter what the media at large says about us. (Thank God for strong and proud African-American family bonds!) Black women have been told our facial features are too large and misshapen and our skin is too dark to reflect beauty, yet cosmetics companies and the cosmetic surgery industry pedal our beauty. Full lips, high cheekbones, and exotic eye makeup tricks to reshape or contour eyes, and not to mention, spray-on tans to give the appearance of exotic beauty and opulence. REALLY?! How many Sistahs were whispered about and had their ample posterior was ogled as they walked by?

Well, obviously, the smack talk was just the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head in other women because now all the butt-exercises, implants, built-in fake butt shapewear, and shots for a more “coke bottle body” is rampant. Hmmm…I guess filling out your yoga pants in the seat isn’t as undesirable as we (Black women) have been told. After all, you can’t twerk with a flat butt! Even our hairstyles are “in” now. If I have to see one more fake, locked-up or renamed cornrow style that the latest Non-Black reality star family (you know who I’m referring to) is sporting and reclaiming as theirs, I am going to SCREAM!

Sistahs, wake-up to the fact that we are naturally beautiful, and no media outlet, cosmetic company, plastic surgeon, or society in general can take our brand of sexy and do it better than us! “Black Empowerment” scares people. It flies in the face of an unjust society that wants to vilify or degrade any aspect that concerns African-American women (and men). That’s why it’s so important for Black parents to take up the gauntlet and arm their children with the true knowledge of “Our Family’s Legacy of Greatness”. To quote a Black man (Mr. Jesse Williams) who defines the awakening that I pray for our people to manifest, “What I’d like to see us do is to return to a space where it’s okay for folks to be proud and outwardly Black in public…” My Sistahs…don’t swallow the lies…YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!  

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Dale Francis-Forteau is an African-American free-lance writer currently living in NYC with her husband and two grown sons. Her love of the written word was instilled in her from an early age and influenced by the numerous family members who have worked as educators. An alum of The Bronx High School of Science, Mrs. Francis-Forteau has recently returned to college and is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Nursing degree.

NLTT Presents: Guest Blog Series - What Lies Were You Told?

The journey to No Lies Told Then has been an enlightening one. We have gained knowledge and shed weights and lies we didn't even know we carried. Black women have illuminated our path with unforgettable moments and reminders of our value. We plugged into black womanhood - not just our own, but the magic that binds a global sisterhood with an invisible ribbon. From Sandra Bland to Lemonade, so much has taken place and we keep up with it because all of these occurrences are the beating heart of what we stand for.

We decided that it's now time to turn the proverbial microphone to the black woman who inspire the passion we have for our film. We're proud to introduce a guest blog corner where black women tell their stories and get the lies they've been told off their chest! If you're interested, you're invited to submit your words. We want to hear from you. If you're here to read, get comfortable and let these stories empower you.