Project: Color Me Beautiful – Masterpiece & Work in Progress | Sister Afua

By: Nana

Sitting in my room glancing through Essence and Ebony, going through the Instagram accounts of stunning stylists, models, and fashionistas, looking through the Facebook posts of former classmates…I begin what I know will be another struggle with myself over my self-worth and understandings of my own beauty. How did it come to this? How did I come to this ongoing fluctuation between the highest to the lowest feelings of love towards myself? I guess it only makes sense to go back in time to deconstruct what it meant to grow up in this country as an African girl that was far from the ideal beauty within society overall and within multiple Black communities.

Watching my fingers move frantically on my keyboard as long suppressed emotions and feelings burst through my mind and onto the page, I struggle in justifying the relevance of this piece. Africans, after all, don’t speak of self-esteem or self-love in the ways that Americans do. It can be argued that we don’t speak of these things at all. I should just be strong enough to avoid the painful and hurtful experiences of the past and present and stay focused on academic and career goals. I can hear my mother saying “We don’t have those kinds of issues. We’re African.” In retrospect, in reflection, the practice of avoidance and suppression makes sense (on the surface level). If you don’t acknowledge it, if you deny its existence, then it is no longer real. It ceases to exist…until another unpleasant encounter or another trigger incident that unsettles your oblivion.

I grew up surrounded by beautiful women; my mother, my sisters, my cousins, my friends…all gorgeous African girls and women whose varying shades of brown skin embodied health and where the epitome of melanated beauty. And then there was me… sporting thick glasses from a young age, much taller than the women of my family (and of my ethnic groups honestly) with a head of hair that my mother struggled with and barely tamed with relaxers and the criticalness and outspokenness that would be admired in a man but looked down upon in a woman.  My skin tone progressively darkened throughout my childhood and adolescence, a fact that school mates articulated in ways that left me feeling as though my dark skin was a marker of shame. My lanky frame would eventually fill out, leaving me with thick thighs, wide hips and an ample chest but with a behind less than fitting of the Black aesthetic that many are familiar with.

Unbeknown to family, on a daily basis, I was inundated with cruel words from classmates. Tar baby, darkness, burnt, Big Shirley, ugly, Grace Jones (whom I adored but my classmates felt was ‘masculine’ and ugly)…you name it, I heard it. Of course, I would never tell my family or friends. What could they do? I had to fall in line with how we did things culturally, avoid and move on.

Among the African community in my area, I was not free of comments that made me question why my physical attributes had to be a spectacle among others unaccustomed to my looks.  I was often compared to the women of my family in ways that made me feel insecure, as if I had fallen short of the expected aesthetic.

“Oh, that’s your sister. Your blood sister? She looks different”

“Oh wow! Your daughter doesn’t look like you at all!” (Said after complimenting my mom on her beauty) “Why is she so big and tall?”

All heard in supposed safe spaces, where the American ideal of beauty was supposed to be devoid and irrelevant. Of course, I would never tell my family or friends. What could they do? I had to fall in line with how we did things culturally, avoid and move on.

Early on, my father was able to identify what he suspected to be an internal struggle in appreciating my own beauty. At a young age, I deeply admired Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson. Beyond their musical abilities, they (to me) were the embodiment of beauty that was accepted by people of all races. Thinking of it as normal adolescent behavior, my father dismissed this admiration as nothing serious. It was only when he overheard me praying for a change in my physical appearance that attempts to offset and disrupt what he called “toxic American ideas [of beauty]” that were taking hold of his daughter. Subscriptions to Jet, Ebony, Essence, and American Legacy Magazines flooded our apartment. In his own way, without much discussion, we interrogated the idea of who was beautiful in the United States. He would say “In Ghana, everyone will love you. In Ghana, people adore dark skin. In Ghana, you are what beauty is.” My mother would also indirectly address my struggles in her own way. “If I had your beautiful face…” or “You are dark and lovely.” Even as a child, she would affectionately call me her “pretty girl.” Their attempts at negating the toxicity of American perceptions of worthiness and beauty to this day are greatly appreciated. Still…I was often confused and I was hurting. I was scrutinized in ways that left me wanting to understand why my looks were considered substandard.

Now as a 25 year old woman, I can point to colonization, imperialism, and racism. I can focus on self-internalized oppression. I can call into question media’s obsession with normalizing and ranking by weight, height, skin tone, etc. I’ll never have a mathematical proof with laws, theorems, statements, and notations that will totally capture the complexity of it all. However, I can take charge of my journey towards self-love and vow to unapologetically love myself in the face of negativity. I have grown into my uniqueness and individuality and have come to accept that it is okay to acknowledge internal struggles; I can no longer avoid my feelings whenever and wherever they surface. I can embrace the fact that I am a masterpiece and a work in progress and I can own that fiercely and lovingly. And I can lovingly embrace the scars (internal and external) that adorn my dark brown body and smile.