Your teenage years mean dealing with puberty, hormones, and figuring out how to fit into society. That becomes even harder when you add casual racism and self-doubt into the mix.
These are the struggles of Black girlhood.
Going through this during my teens taught me a lot about myself. It all started with a school uniform, a big backpack, and a touch of anxiety.
The School Years
Growing up in a mostly white area structured my view of the world.
My best friends came from these communities, and we loved and supported each other as we grew into the women we are today.
But there’s a silent struggle in rarely seeing kids who look like you or face the same cultural challenges or learning about slavery in history class and feeling everyone’s eyes on you.
And whilst I was raised by strong women who taught me how to protect myself and my feelings, no one tells you how to navigate the stares or the slightly racial jokes.
The pain of being different
Things were tough growing up in a school where I was the only black female in my year until around year 9. Children would make comments about my skin color or jokes about my Afrocentric nose.
We were all children, but those incidents followed me to adulthood. I spent hours at night googling rhinoplasties because I wanted to fit in. I even spent days researching how to straighten my hair or, at the worst of times, how to lighten my skin.
My home was safe, and my mom was incredible. She would comfort me, telling me we were a team, that I was beautiful, and to ignore them.
I owe all my strength today to her.
But that didn’t stop this consistent commenting at school. At the time, I didn’t even know it was wrong. I simply understood that I didn’t like it or the way it made me feel.
But what could I say to teachers when the comments came from so many different angles? What could I say to authority when I didn’t even know how harmful or wrong these judgments were? How could I have predicted that at almost 22 those words would still hold my self-image in a tight grasp?
So, I spent 5 years gritting my teeth and drying my eyes.
When the time came to leave High School, it did not cause any sadness. I was ready to enter this big new world.
The first thing I did was send a detailed email to my school explaining all the racist incidents I went through.
I was done being silent and would not let anyone else go through what I did.
Don’t Touch My Hair
How many times have people told you your hair is unprofessional, too dry, too frizzy, not attractive, or knotty? Any guesses?
Now, how many times has your hair been pulled on or touched by strangers in public? Got a number for that?
If you were to ask me, I couldn’t give you a count—it’s constant.
My hair is a part of me and a part of my body, but to the curious world, some feel that it’s something to examine.
Everyone feels differently about this, but consent is everything, and just because one person may be fine with it, does not mean the next person
I Am Not My Hair
That being said, my relationship with my hair has been tumultuous, to say the least — a reality that most women like me can relate to.
Growing up, I wanted nothing more than for it to be straight or flow down my back.
I dreamt of looking like Beyonce during her Destiny’s Child Era (thank you, Beyonce) or rocking a Nia Long hairdo.
But my hair didn’t do those things; it could never be straight enough or long enough. And while my family always complimented my curls, it wasn’t enough for me.
During the early 2000’s the “attractive” black woman didn’t have hair like mine; she had mini braids or a perm.
Well, at least that’s all I saw on the television.
In my mind, it didn’t matter that I was still just a child. I wanted to see myself just like I saw these media icons.
So, I rocked braids for years until I was old enough to start doing my own hair. As soon as I was of age, I cranked the straighteners up to 230 degrees and fried it straight.
Worst. Mistake. Ever.
The Curl Era
Just as my curls died, the rise of the natural hair movement took social media by storm. It was a revolution and a personal tragedy. I had spent so many years as a girl trying to love my hair but never quite doing it; so many years straightening it until it was irreversibly damaged, and now curls were publicly being praised.
My hair wasn’t seen as nappy anymore; it was 4b hair. I didn’t even know what that meant.
Suddenly, I was learning my curl pattern, learning to finger coil, learning which gel worked best for my hair type, and desperately trying to feel beautiful with this hair I learned to hate.
Just like anything else in life, trying to reverse this taught mindset was almost impossible. I saw other women with natural hair and thought they were the most beautiful people in the room.
Yet, I couldn’t seem to see myself that way. Each time a curl was out of place I felt like that insecure child again.
And when that happened, the straighteners came back out.
I couldn’t figure out my balance; I couldn’t figure out how to love my hair both straight and curly, so I entered this never-ending cycle of growing and learning and then damaging the locs I had become so emotionally attached to.
In 2005, India.Arie came out with a song titled “I Am Not My Hair.”
What I’ve learned in the process of growing into a woman is that India.Arie was correct.
I’d like to believe that the new generation of little black girls and boys are being molded by society in a way that encourages them to love themselves as they are.
From Girlhood to Womanhood
Figuring out my own identity hasn’t been easy. This transition into womanhood has been guided by not only those in my circle but also by important public movements and figures.
A great example is the #BlackGirlMagic movement, which focuses on celebrating the beauty, power, and resilience of Black women by highlighting their success.
Another example is music from the likes of India.Arie, Ms.Lauryn Hill, Erykah Badu, and Solange — women who encourage a life of unapologetic blackness in every form.
Growing up is hard enough. Learning to be resilient and to love myself through each comment has made the process harder.
Yet, despite the hardships and growing pains, Black girlhood is a blessing.
