Black Beauty vs. American Beauty by Malika Penn

There are many lies told about black womanhood. The biggest lie I was ever told was that the black woman is inferior. Now in a literal way, we are. The black woman is always viewed as the “last resort!” I viewed myself that way for quite some time until I did some digging. I did a bunch of research on the black panthers and a few other organizations whose sole purpose was to uplift and unite black people.

It wasn’t until I became “conscious,” that I realized how other cultures of women emulate us and try to imitate us in so many ways. By that time I’d realized how many other lies I was probably told or influenced by; that being very reason why I viewed myself as inferior and inadequate in this society.

The black woman is a queen; nothing more, nothing less. We are curvy, we are dark, we have hair that protects us from the sun, we have round noses, we have full lips. The reason I know black women are queens is because people of other cultures spend thousands of dollars to look exactly like us. They tan. They get breast augmentation. They get butt lifts or injections. They get lip fillers. They get their body contoured to be curvy. It is apparent that what we look like is what they wish to look like. Only, our bodies, our faces, our curves, and our hair is natural.

How can a group be so inferior, yet influence millions of women to look the exact same way? Research has shown that the only way a large group of people will follow something or someone is if they appeal to the lifestyle they want to live or do live.

Being a black woman is the most beautiful thing that you can be, but it’s painful. We are told that straight hair is beautiful, thinner noses are beautiful and lighter skin is beautiful. But in reality the nappy hair, round nose and dark skin are the very thing that makes us so unique. The saddest thing about these views is, they’re usually put into our heads by our own people; people who aren’t educated on why black is so beautiful.

My truth is educating myself on why the black woman is so strong after being knocked down for centuries. Our ancestors fought for us. They gave us the right to vote, the right to learn and the right to advance. Those were the tools given to us to continue our greatness. When you educate yourself and get to know your roots, you realize that we’ve been through the most. So educate yourself, educate your friends, educate our baby girls. Let them know that black is beautiful and that they can be anything that they want to be.

Our ancestors were raped, beaten, used and abused. Now in 2016, according to forbes.com, black women are ranked as the most educated group and also the country’s fastest growing group of entrepreneurs. Yeah! We did that!

The black woman is the strongest. After all, what other race of women went through abuse, torture and still prospered and went on to become doctors, lawyers, journalists, and businesswomen? What other group of human beings endured what we have and what we still go through on a daily basis and still come out victorious? What other group of women are so strong? The black woman!

Malika Penn is a 21 year old journalist, blogger and entrepreneur. She has a niche for social media and public relations. Malika has been writing since the age of 6, writing songs, poetry and opinion pieces. She loves to learn but also to teach and spread awareness. She loves the skin she's in and her only wish is to make a difference.

Back by Ivy.E

back

bak/

noun

1. the rear surface of the human body from the shoulders to the hips.

"he lay on his back"

(Google)

back

An especially fine woman's butt.

(Urban Dictionary)

The constant struggle of being a young black woman, is being seen as a sexual object. No matter how hard you try to change the way your body looks you are always seen in one position.

On your back.

I remember a time in my Biology class during my sophomore year in high school. My classmates and I were discussing our future plans. When it was my turn to speak, I was interrupted. My classmate said,” I know what you're going to be.” Curious to what he would say I allowed him to speak.

“You're going to be a stripper,” he said.

The whole group paused due to the shock that this young black male allowed those words to come out of his own mouth!

But is he to blame?

I turn on the television and see the roles black women play. These scandalous images built an empire that's supposed to be my reality. Apparently, I'm only worth something if I show it off.

And I won't lie, I began to believe them.

That my Asset held the value of my worth. I would walk past a group of guys and I would feel their eyes burning through my skin. And don't you dare give me that “dressing appropriately” hype because my sweatpants caught on fire as well!

I struggled everyday with my self-esteem. No matter what I said to myself “they” were always louder than my own voice. I weep for my younger self because I should've fought harder for her. I should've guarded her with Iron and Steel with the intent to keep her safe. Nothing coming in and nothing coming out.

No hateful words

No Barbies allowed

No more price tags

The day I decided to walk my walk and preach my truth became MY day of emancipation!

I signed everything over to God and in exchange He gave me love, power, and a sound mind. I took them and hid them in my heart. My television no longer portrayed grotesque images. Like Latifah, I became the Queen of Badness and had them thrown out of my box! I began walking on a tightrope with my Afro puffs and my fist raised high.

I walk my truth by staying true to who I am and who I represent.

My first name carries meaning and my last name is the beginning of the next generation. My truth is loyalty, respect, and love. Without these I am BW, a basic woman, something I was not born to be.

See, I was born into a lineage of Queens.

They float as if their feet never touch the ground but they move so quickly you never know they were there. Their skin is ageless and their bodies contain a strength that cannot be duplicated. When they are silent, everything stops but when they speak the whole rooms shakes! Who they are became clear to me once I learned my truth because they are me.

And I am them.

Ivy E. is a Senior at Bethune-Cookman University. She is pursuing a BA Degree In Business Administration. Her hobbies are writing, dancing, music, reading, and watching natural hair tutorials. She hopes that one day her writing would inspire the future generation. 

5 Powerful Lessons We’ve Learned from our Guest Bloggers (so far)

On overcoming the culture of fear that has done so much damage to individuals and the community.

Living in fear is essentially living the lie that tells you to hope for much less and avoid taking chances because you don’t deserve them. At this point, I can’t afford fear because it’s presence in my path isn’t just a stumbling block - it’s a deep ditch that I’d never come back from if I fell in, so I’m choosing to step wisely.

On having the consciousness of being black, celebrating it and thriving in it

Even though the horrendous manifestation of racism can make being Black feel like a laborious burden to carry, we must unite in solidarity to end racial and social injustice; And rather than consume the lies of people who misconstruct our stories, we must continue to tell our own....The world needs to know that we are still standing; still black, still proud.

On the effect of hearing your parents say “I love you” when it comes to knowing your value

(Now that my sons have) 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. 

On being called beautiful and why we all deserve it

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.

On overcoming other people’s opinions of our beauty and defining it for ourselves

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.

On awakening our black pride by spitting out the lies society has told about us

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!!  

Black & Living Fear by Violet Kadzura

One of the toughest pills to swallow as a black woman moving through a world that is hostile towards me and insistent on controlling me, is how much of my existence is crafted around fear. It’s instilled, it’s implied and even insisted upon. It’s drilled into my head with the long lists of things I shouldn’t do for fear that something will go wrong. Don’t swim, don’t travel, don’t show weakness and mind your success because it might drive potential romantic partners away. What underlines all of it, is fear.

Fear that swimming means drowning, fear that so-called weakness makes you easier to suppress, fear that you’ll travel and never return, or travel and become a statistics. It shows itself in smaller, seemingly mundane rules like don’t get a nose piercing because you’ll look like a hoe. It’s all done out of fear!

How many expectations of black women are silently swimming in your head that don’t even come from you? Why is there a long book of laws that decide whether we’re worthy of being called “queens” when we are powerful enough to decide that for ourselves. Most importantly, why are we so afraid of hundreds of things and why do we let them govern our choices?  

In every decision I make fear has a voice and whenever I take a step without fear it feels unnatural. Sometimes it feels like the ability to be carefree and even happy is impossible as a black person, and as if it’s impossible to have hope because what inevitably follows is disappointment and heartbreak.

This is obviously part of the defense mechanism we’ve built up to survive everything the world hurls at us. It’s how we manage expectations and avoid pain. We use fear to protect ourselves but I’m at the point of questioning if that’s doing more harm than good. I want to understand what the personal and collective cost of living in fear is. What is the legacy of this fear?

For me it has been anxiety, self-doubt and questioning every little move I make, sometimes to the point of sleepless nights and complete isolation from people I love and environments I thrive in. There are leaps I could have made that I didn’t, there are many situations I could have handled differently but didn’t because I was led by fear.

I want to understand why my blackness has to be defined by fear. Why must I be more cautious about taking chances than a person from another race? Right now, African Americans walk on streets afraid to be the next hashtag and protest inspiration. At this very moment, some people feel the need to water down their blackness for fear of facing the full extent of racism. I’ve witnessed people going against their own dreams and playing it safe. We all know at least one person who aspired for something ambitious but ended up going for the safety net because fear led them.

It’s not our fault. Look at what we’ve faced and how much we are up against it, but we shouldn’t naturalize fear and make it the heart of the decisions we make. It is possible to be black and look fear dead in the face and refuse its influence. We can be carefree, we can be happy and we deserve to be.

Living in fear is essentially living the lie that tells you to hope for much less and avoid taking chances because you don’t deserve them. At this point, I can’t afford fear because it’s presence in my path isn’t just a stumbling block - it’s a deep ditch that I’d never come back from if I fell in, so I’m choosing to step wisely.

Still Black, Still Proud… by Tresell Davis

I grew up in a predominately black neighborhood on the west side of Altadena, a mountainous suburb about 15 miles north of Los Angeles.  My father, a tall and slender set painter would make his way off to work each day just before dawn. Without skipping a beat, my Mom got me and my sisters up for breakfast and shuffled us off to school precisely at the moment the smog began to hug the horizon. 

Our cozy Spanish style house was a humble dynasty. At the epicenter of our home was an oval handcrafted wooden table which was visible as soon as you entered through the front door. Although each of the five surrounding chairs were identical in size and height, the plate with the largest piece of meat proved who reigned King. (As kids it was an unproductive use of energy to even consider staring at the succulent chicken breast with a longing desire. Your best bet was to concentrate your efforts on beating out a sibling for one of the larger drumsticks or wings).

This was because our dad was a self respecting and hard working Black man. He had a small afro and kept a groomed beard. He spoke with a commanding tone of surety. His baritone made the word “No” definitive and the word “Yes” a triumphant victory. My mother, a beautiful curvaceous brown woman with supple skin and high cheek bones, was more cunning in her sovereignty. Being released from the dining room table could only be granted when when every piece of food had been eaten from your plate; playing games outside only reserved for children with finished homework.

This made our home a place of equity and objectivity. Even with my pathetic attempts to plead for curfew extensions, my parents' love and protection was the primary burden of proof as they gave their final verdicts. So hanging out too late with friends had to be substituted for telephone conversations about what she heard “he said”, “she said” during 3rd period English. 

It was the same English class where Ms. Ivory, a middle aged Caucasian woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut, took a deep breath and projected, “Here,” they said, “this is beautiful, and if you are on this day ‘worthy’ you may have it.” I fingered the face, wondering at the single-stroke eyebrows; picked at the pearly teeth stuck like two piano keys between red bowline lips. Traced the turned-up nose, poked the glassy blue eyeballs, twisted the yellow hair. I could not love it. But I could examine it to see what it was that all the world said was lovable.”

Her voice quivered in sorrow as she recited Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye and her eyes later wept as she read Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man aloud. 

These literary masterpieces had been a part of her curriculum for years, yet the box of tissues she kept perched at the top left corner of her massive desk served as evidence that she grieved every time she read them.  As she looked out into her audience of wide-eyed Black and Hispanic adolescents, it became crystal clear that she wasn’t some nascent Michele Pfeiffer “heroine” character coming to rescue “dangerous minds”.  She had a black son.  She mourned not only for him, but for all of us. 

Much like my parents, she taught us that we could be anything, but knew that we would face a treacherous road in our quest for achievement and equality.  Regardless of our scholarly inclinations, innate ingenuity, or our creatively expressive nature, we were still Black.  We would not be seen as equal.  We would be harassed without just cause.  We would be criminalized and demonized; or equally calamitous, we would be pitied without recompense. 

She saw how slavery and segregation had been morphed into a new face at the hands of America's plastic surgeons; policy makers who have carefully molded the judicial system into a profitable incarceration industry that mimics 18th century plantations. She resented the fact that dangling black bodies, like strange fruit on sycamore trees, had been replaced by illegal chokeholds; and whips on our backs replaced by bullets at the hands of vicious cops and racist vigilantes.

Ms. Ivory bore witness to a world that barely recognizes us as human beings or sees our profound beauty. She knew that no level of education could dismantle the way we are perceived. We would still be Black. Society would continuously try to convince us that we are inadequate, but we must remain proud. No amount of wealth could be bartered to expunge the gruesome realities that lie behind our complex history. We will always be Black.  

Even though the horrendous manifestation of racism can make being Black feel like a laborious burden to carry, we must unite in solidarity to end racial and social injustice; And rather than consume the lies of people who misconstruct our stories, we must continue to tell our own....

The world needs to know that we are still standing; still black, still proud.

Tresell is a retail strategist and founder of B Collective Inc. She currently resides in Harlem, NYC. To get in touch with Tresell send an email to Tresell.davis@me.com.