Don’t question Me [533]

Having to explain yourself to society is one of the most exhausting and daunting experiences of life. The annoyance of repeatedly having to define who you are and what you like and don’t like and why that’s okay; all the while somehow still being put into a category’s of this or that, and STILL subsequently, being pinned against others similar to you for not being a homogenous demographic or turned into a caricature for entertainment and criticism.

That’s what I seems being a black woman is. Having your blackness and womanhood measured on a scale, being compared and contrasted to others whilst simultaneously having your sense of reality and self be constantly ridiculed and invalidated.

As a young girl I never understood why people would ask me convoluted questions relating to my characteristics or label me as some overtly offensive adjective all while comparing me to my counterparts and insulting them in the process. “Oh well you’re an Oreo but they’re ghetto”. Please educate me on how I’m a cookie and what makes me not ghetto in comparison to them? Oh well you “act white” (translation: you don’t care presumably “black”things and that’s not normal to me).

[pregnant pause]

So you’ve type casted me and you’re confused that I’m not what you think a black woman is, meanwhile your insulting her (because let’s not act like people don’t use ghetto as a derogatory term [its not]) to prove that we’re not the same and that’s interesting to you.

Cool….

As an adult, growing and gaining more autonomy over my existence granted me access to the new terms:  stubborn, mean, and picky- terms that made it known that I was not soft, malleable, easy. As if I didn’t have the option to choose what I did and didn’t accept in my life: as if I was insane for wanting to establish myself unburden and without criticism. In everyday conversations, I learned how easy it was to dismiss a black woman’s existence  and constrict her to a classification of herself because she’s done something deemed “wrong” or other. Being called ghetto for taking shots with friends and family, chastised for laughing too loud, called boujee for liking something others have yet to experiences, ghetto for singing the words to your favorite song too loud, shy because she doesn’t know anyone and isn’t social, the example are endless.

I consistently have to come to grips with the reality of being a black womanly in society. Two adjectives that somehow hold so much meaning yet are often times a subdivision of character traits that aren’t even given the freedom to coexist. Like you can’t be funny and serious, angry and happy, expressive and quiet. There always seem to be some fallacy at play when it come to  being a black woman in society. You must be strong and amicable or you’re labeled angry and difficult or you must be soft and aloof otherwise you’re too masculine.  Oftentimes black femininity is poked, prodded, and broken down to the most minute concept and explanation.

Being a black women, we cannot be rationalized and be contained to a set amount of adjectives. Our existence is not synonymous with one another. So please, the next time you try to label a black woman/girl based off of how you think she should be, remember to shut up. Nobody asked, nobody cares, and you don’t even know them.

Below is one of the first poems I wrote about just wanting to be liked. Desperately wants to be appreciated for my existence and nothing more. No labels, no adjectives, just loved and appreciated for being myself.

Enjoy,

jo 🤍

I spend copious amounts of time in my head. Trying to mold myself into being a better person, trying to be the perfect granddaughter, the perfect niece , the perfect cousin. I want to be the likable black girl. With no attitude, who’s approachable. But I’m hurt. I’m hurt from things I don’t remember or can’t comprehend. I’m hurt from death and love and hate and happiness. I walk in fear. Fear of being hated, fear of being liked . I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of living. I’m scared that I want to die. I’m lost in a sea of confusion because I can’t seem to puzzle together who I am. I can’t seem to get an exact understanding on who or what I want to be. Wondering if I’ll be judged for throwing shade, for laughing too loud, for crying too much, for not talking enough. Constantly walking on my heels. Fearing rejection and ridicule. Afraid of being mocked and made fun of, rejected and dejected. I spend every second of every minute of every day trying to fix myself. Trying to be something I don’t know or understand. I try and try and try to be this girl I was taught to be, this girl I was told to be. But now I’m here, 22 and unable to explain or understand who I am, what I like, what I enjoy doing and why. Here I am, lost, in a ocean of words and letters and numbers and patterns all that I don’t understand, all that I can’t rationalize because I struggle. I struggle to understand me.i struggle to want to understand me. I simply just am and I do: and I continue to not.