My Blackness

Every black person has a moment where they realize they’re black; to be more specific, what exactly it means to be black. I had my first moment at a pool party in elementary school. All my friends were white and came out of the water with slicked back, wet hair that cascaded down their back. I came out with knotted curls that defied gravity. I suddenly became self-conscious of the fact that I looked nothing like the girls around me. I didn’t have the same body, hair or skin tone, and little did I know our adolescent experiences would completely be different.

I grew up in a wealthy beach town with friendly people, but only 1.9% were black. Visually, I stuck out like a sore thumb. The older I got, the more I noticed I was the only black person in every room I entered. I felt isolated, as if no one around me could understand my experience as a young black woman. I didn’t have anyone to turn to or ask the questions that related to such a huge part of my identity: my blackness.

My biggest insecurity throughout my entire highschool experience was my hair. I realized from a young age that my hair looked nothing like any of my peers. I couldn’t participate in the braiding circles or impulsively dye my curls with my friends. I wanted my hair to look like theirs. I was so excited the first time I got braids because it was the closest I could get to having the long, straight hair that my friends had. I never wore anything but black braids for almost all of highschool. Nobody but my family had ever seen my natural hair because I was convinced it was ugly. It didn’t fit the norm that surrounded me, so I rejected it. I had developed anxiety around my “hair schedule.” I carefully constructed the days I had to wear my natural hair to avoid being at school or social events with my peers.

I only ever wore black braids because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t understand the unique world of black hair and had no one to ask. Wigs, weaves, etc., they were a different language that I didn’t speak. I always decided to play it safe. It’s not like my friends would understand the sudden change in styles and I never really wanted to put in the effort to explain what was in my hair. Conversations about my hair made me feel like an oddity. I always love to share, but most of the time the questions come off patronizing or negative. “So you’re wearing someone else’s hair?” or “Wait, so your hair is fake?” they’d ask.

The development of my personal style was also delayed. Every person who has been in high school can agree that there were brands and styles of clothing that were socially accepted by your classmates. I remember once in middle school, I came into school with my new hoop earrings that my grandma had gotten me. I was told by a friend that I shouldn’t wear hoops because they were ghetto, and that I should get some pearl earrings instead. I was confused because all my cousins wore hoop earrings and I thought the hoops I was wearing were cute. Out of fear of being rejected by my peers and already dealing with the pressure of detaching myself from the ghetto stigma expected of black women, I never wore hoops again. I didn’t realize at the time that hoops weren’t considered accepted within the white community because they were popular in the black community. Ironically, everyone in my school started wearing hoop earrings when they saw one of their favorite white influencers talk about them in a Youtube video.

Everyone at my school shopped at LF or Brandy Melville. I couldn’t fit into those brands. I couldn’t fit into any of my friends' clothes. I thought it was because I was overweight. I didn’t have the thigh gaps my friends obsessed over. I had hips and thick thighs. At this point in my life, I didn’t understand that I just didn’t have the general body type of my peers. My self confidence was slowly deteriorating as I tried to fit the aesthetic my friends held. Nothing fit me right. I didn’t feel good in the clothes I was wearing. I felt pressured to hold this same aesthetic because I had the stress of being a teenage girl and wanted to ignore the fact that I was the only black person in my environment. I didn’t want any more attention on me than there already was so I didn’t indulge in the styles that interested me. Instead, I forced myself to be something I wasn’t.

College was where my creative development began to bloom. I was exposed to so many diverse people that mirrored my life and my reality and I gained a confidence I never had before. I bought the clothes I always wanted to try. I met a girl in my dorm who styled black hair and learned from her all the options for me, and I’m still trying them. I wore my natural hair in public for the first time since 6th grade this summer, and I loved it. I found black friends who I can share experiences with and friends from a variety of different backgrounds who share theirs. I began to look back at high school and evaluate where my insecurities really stemmed from and finally began to work on my body image and self-love. I am sad this had to start so late, but I’m glad it even started. To look at how far I’ve come, I’m proud of myself. I want to tell the insecure black girl sitting in a sea of white: “it’s going to be okay, you're going to be exactly who you imagined”.

Strike Out,

Chanel Gaynor

Editor: Ellie Dover

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