Sandra on Black Girl Magic

I am 36. I think that officially qualifies as old. I’m scared. Can I say that? I’m not sure I have the right to be, if I’m being honest. It’s in these pages where I am honest.

I’ve made something of my life. My future is secure. I’ve made investments and I have a financial woman who’s going to make sure the money continues to grow. At least I’ll know I didn’t completely fail.

I can’t help feeling like I’m still failing in some way. The money is there, but is my mom proud of me? Really proud. Am I doing the best I can? Living my best life? Making an impact?

I’m thinking differently. I used to be afraid of shining too brightly, or being who I am and celebrating me. But now we have #BlackGirlMagic and it’s doing something to us. Such a powerful movement, so necessary.

Imagine you are the hated and maybe even the hunted. Your features are appropriated. Your style diminished. Your qualities demeaned. All that is you is mocked unless your qualities are in a white body. Imagine being hated by everybody, and I do mean everybody, and all of a sudden you hear the words “Black Girl Magic”.

It becomes everything. An expression of self love -- black girl love. A celebration of us. A non-stop party. And when it happens, the most influential women in the world are black: Beyonce, Bozoma Saint John, Oprah, Ava, Nicki, Rihanna -- everybody wants to be them and they’re just like you.

What an incredible group of women! I hope little girls can avoid all the negative stuff I had to face before discovering how amazing we are.

Sometimes even I need a reminder. We’re incredible. Kickass. We’re everything. People say they hate us ‘cause they ain’t us. Just remember those words when people try to tear you down. Those who are the most vocal, most negative, are just jealous. Keep doing you. And if you fall, know there’s a whole group of sister friends out there who will catch you.

It took me a long time to figure that part out. Don’t repeat my mistake. I wasted so much time trying to figure out who to trust and who had my best interest at heart; more likely than not it was black women. They -- we -- are your closest allies and biggest cheerleaders.

You know who my biggest cheerleader is and was? My mom. I don’t know which tense to use when I talk about her. She’s still here in body, but her mind is not what it was. I can’t even think about it.  The what comes next part. And it’s coming too quickly.  

Love,

Sandra

The Weight

I played my part expertly for years. I was the woman who self-censored. The woman who talked so much, while saying very little. I was charming, non-threatening, a blank slate.

Even I had a breaking point and one day, I decided to speak my mind.

TMZ ran with it. It became known as my “militant” (their word, not mine) period, as though I would snap out of. Speaking my mind as a black woman was a radical act.

The people who once loved my books questioned their support. They had no idea I was so “angry” and suggested I go back to Africa -- the default response.

That weight I carried around was the expectation of others. Stick a quarter in me and I’d perform; people ate it up.

What they loved, felt like me selling out.

I carried the weight like a burden. But when a little girl tells you how much your work means to her, and when your literary idol tells you he’s proud of you, that weight starts to look a feel different.

The truth is, weight can be a badge which you carry proudly. It can be a reminder of the work you still have to do. I thought it would crush me. Instead, it empowered me.

Sandra Does TED Talks

Dreams. When we’re kids, adults love to ask us what we want to be. There are no limitations. We don’t think about money. Or what’s possible. We just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

Anything is possible.

When I was a kid, I thought I was going to save the world through words. I don’t know if I thought I was going to negotiate a peace treaty, but I knew I loved to write more than anything else in the world. It was going to be my ticket to something better for my mom and for me.

I’m going to tell you a secret. When I was a kid, we didn’t have much, but I collected postcards and magazine articles. I would hang them on my wall. All those little holes drove my mom crazy. They reminded of all the places I would go and all the people whose stories I would tell. So many people are invisible, and I wanted to bring them to life -- give them a voice.

I thought that was my purpose.

Like each and every one of us, I got older and started thinking about limitations. What was impossible.

How can I pay for it?

How will I earn a living?

How do I get my shot?

And that big dream that I had started getting smaller and smaller. And those adults who asked what I wanted to be and smiled when I told them, encouraged me to be more realistic.

You can’t do that.

That’s not a real job. Who’s going to pay for it?

You need to look for something more stable.

When you hear something over and over again, it takes a toll. It chips away at the fearlessness of the dreamer. The dream becomes a distant memory.

So you think about what you can’t do, instead of what you can.

You think about the lack of money.

You explore other options that will offer stability.

Your choices become the product of the limited vision of others. It may be fine for awhile but there will come a day, there always comes a day when you have to wonder how different life would have been if only...

You still believed in dreams.

You were braver.

You believed in yourself, stuck to your guns.

Sometimes, it all works out fine and the path in life may not have been the one you dreamed, but the journey is still beautiful. Sometimes, you’re able to snap out of it and recalibrate the direction of your life. Other times and this is the saddest of all, your life becomes an exercise in existing.

I saw myself slipping down that hole at a job that was just paying the bills. I didn’t want to become one of those people so, I made a decision.

All I needed was a shot. A foot in the door.

So here’s the secret: dreams don’t always come true at once. It may come in stages. It may come in the form that looks far from where you want to be but is creative enough to work.

My opportunity came in the form of fan fiction. The words of encouragement were from anonymous readers. Who knew they would reignite a spark that was dimming?

So, my friends, think about the dreams you had when you were a kid. And look at where you are now. Is this where you want to be? Is this the life you want?

Sandra's Dilemma

I’ve had so many crossroads in my life, but the first in my adult life was when I was 22.

I’d just graduated with my shiny new degree and nobody could tell me anything.

Doors were going to blow wide open for me to strut through. Employers were going to fall all over themselves to pay me. I was going to do the whole “day job” thing from 9-5 and write the next great American novel by night.

My idea of “adulting” was voting, drinking wine by the gallon and living it up. The ladies on “Sex in the City” barely worked. I thought that was my future.

I wasn’t prepared for the truth that awaited me. 

At 23, I had it all figured out. I could see myself standing onstage while someone presented me with a prestigious award. My hair would be in some sort of fancy ‘do, doing what it does. I’d wear a siren red or sexy black dress that everyone would be talking about and my makeup, without a doubt, would be on point. But the best thing about it would be my real smile.

I could see myself, vividly, living the dream.

Knowing my destination, or maybe it was even my destiny, I was hopeful and optimistic when I went back to my Harlem. I still remembered the grittiness, the sirens, the sense that there was no escape. But I also remembered the neighborhood poet, the untapped talent, the people of faith who took care of each other. Harlem was its people and I’d missed them.

When I left the first time, I was “Sandy,” the nerdy girl with the baby fat, bad attitude and one friend who’d put up with me. When I returned, I was “Sandra” coming back home with my shiny new degree, ready to conquer the world.  

I had this walk back then, which I inherited from my mother. My posture was perfect and I would sort of glide across a room all strong and confident. I was weightless and couldn't nobody tell me nothing; I was finally grown.

To me grown was staying up as late as I wanted, eating junk food, legally drinking and doing me, whatever that meant.

Read more of Sandra's adventures here

They Lied, I'm More Than Enough by Crissi Ponder

I’ve been told that I’m not enough.

My frame is too curvy. My hair is too kinky. My teeth should be straighter. My smile should be bigger.

My stomach should be flatter. My waist should be nonexistent. My breasts should grow a cup size or two.

I should fit the mold for what society deems attractive, desirable and palatable. 

I’ve been told that the way I already show up in the world is not enough.

I have to work 10 times as hard as my Caucasian counterparts to get a fraction of what they have. There isn’t a brown-colored version of white mediocrity.

Then I have to work 10 times harder to keep the crumbs I’m able to grab. The odds are often unfavorable but I’m told to suck it up, because that’s the way things are.

I can never be average. It’s overwhelming when you’re obliged to be exceptional in all that you do. I can’t screw up. I can’t make a misstep.

I can’t be too assertive or I’ll come off as intimidating. I have to paint on my poker face for each daily dose of microaggressions I’m forced to swallow.

I must constantly be grateful for what’s spitefully thrown my way. I’m not supposed to want more for myself. I’m not supposed to assign myself a set of standards to cling to, neither professionally nor personally.

And speaking of personally, I’m frequently told to play small in order to be “wifey material.” I can’t expect too much from my partner. I can’t demand to be treated and loved a certain way or I’ll be labeled “high maintenance.” I’m not supposed to love myself enough to know I deserve the best.

I have to be careful not to intimidate men so they won’t fold under pressure and flee. I have to personify tired gender stereotypes to make them comfortable, which includes walking on eggshells to protect their fragile egos. I can’t just be.

I have to be mild-mannered and meek. I shouldn’t have a voice that calls bullshit on the unjust things I experience. I’m meant to be a silent spectator to the perpetual stripping and dissecting and appropriating of my black womanhood.

But I won’t.

I won’t let the countless lies I’m told about who I’m supposed to be, continue to shape who I am.

I can’t look for validation from a world that rejects me but capitalizes on my essence. I won’t further internalize where I’m told I fall short or fail to measure up.

I will revel in the beauty, boldness and brilliance wrapped up in my existence as a black woman.

I am more than enough.

Twitter: @CrissiUntangled

http://crissiuntangled.com