The Black Girl Experience

 As I stood there, confronting him – the guy who'd been pursuing me – his eyes seemed to look through me rather than at me. My words, laced with the frustration of being perpetually misunderstood, seemed to dissipate before reaching his ears. It was a dark, yet familiar reminder of how often our voices, how often the voices of black women fade into the background when we dare to articulate our existence. This moment, insignificant as it may seem, is a microcosm of the black girl experience – a journey fraught with challenges yet underscored by an undeniable spirit.

Growing up, beauty seemed like a club to which I didn’t have access to. The world around me had standardised beauty, and I, with my black skin and nappy hair, didn’t fit. It took years to unlearn this, to see the reflection in the mirror not as a deviation from the norm but as a beautiful defiance of it, no matter how much my brain said no, you're not it. 

Absent fathers, a common narrative for black girls, left many of us, myself included, striving to be overachievers. It was as if by excelling, we could somehow fill that void, be seen in a light where our worth was seen. This relentless pursuit of excellence became our silent cry for recognition.

Finding love for my black skin and nappy afro hair was a journey back to myself. It was like falling in love with my ancestors, resonating with a feeling of belonging, rich in heritage and unapologetic. This love was a rebellion against a world that had for too long dictated what beauty should look like.

From a tender age, we are sexualized, blamed for the unwarranted attention of grown men. It's a twisted narrative where the victim is condemned, and her innocence is overlooked. We grow up fast, looking away when Malume touches our inner thigh - learning to navigate our way in a world that often forgets our youth.

Catcalls become the unsolicited background music of our lives, so constant that they blend into the white noise of daily existence. Yet, we walk on, often unacknowledged, our resilience and internal cries mistaken for indifference.

We then grow up, wanting different and better for ourselves. We find ourselves bodying our intelligence and work ethic, hoping it will set us apart, yet they're rarely reflected in our salaries. It's as though our worth is indefinitely underestimated, our contributions forever undervalued. But still, we rise, breaking barriers with the quiet strength that characterises us.

Our romantic relationships, particularly with black men, are complex. We are often loved for our tits and ass, but not for our essence, never our soul. It's a love that feels conditional, leaving us bitter, yearning for something deeper, something that transcends the superficial.

When we lay down our boundaries, we are labeled angry or aggressive. Our passion and strength are misconstrued as rebellion, but our fire is not born of anger; it is fueled by a desire for love, protection, and respect, for our voices to be heard and our humanity acknowledged.

The fear of abuse and violence is a shadow that looms over us, a stark reality of our existence. Our safety is constantly in question, even among those who should protect us. Yet, we endure, finding solace in our communities, our sisterhood.

Our resilience is not just a response to adversity; it's a celebration of our spirit, an ode to our ancestors. 

So, to every black girl reading this: know that your existence is a testament to strength. You are beautiful in your defiance, majestic in your resilience. The world may not always see you, but you shine regardless, a beacon of hope and a symbol of enduring strength.