Nothing to Prove

It's been a difficult miracle, but I can honestly say that I am more than okay with who I am today. I like me. I've accepted my flaws and shortcomings and I've learned to embrace the talents and gifts that I was born with. But I'm not here to talk about those. Today I'm going to talk about the things that I couldn't do and didn't have. Things that made me think I wasn't a real Black girl while I was growing up. Things that I can look back on and chuckle at- now that I love the skin I'm in.


When I first came to this country from my native Trinidad and Tobago at six years old, I was completely out of my element. I spoke with an accent and was quickly made a spectacle of. The kids would surround me and ask me to say things like water, bird or Connecticut and break into paroxysms of laughter at my intonation. The worst was being called on to read aloud. I could barely hear myself over their snickering. Then came the issue of the hair. My mother had never cut it since she overcame her Arthritis that caused her to chop off the flowing manes of my two older sisters. With a solitary plait down the center of my back- I was told by the other girls that my hair was long and pretty, but I wouldn't be so cute without it. "Coolie Girl, Coolie Girl" they chanted. They swung it as if they wished it were detachable. I begged my mother to cut it but she refused. Their taunts would cut deep. I wanted to explain to them that Coolie was as bad an insult in my homeland as the N-word up here. That I came from a place where most little girls had the same texture and length of hair as me. That it was the norm- not a novelty over there. But what good would it have done? They were hell bent on making me feel low. And for a while they succeeded.



Part of the acceptance you can achieve on the block is your ability to jump Double Dutch. I could never jump Double Dutch. The nonstop whipping of the rope against the pavement always beckoned me but I was afraid. When I finally made my attempt, I was slapped in the face by the wiry rope and I can still feel the sting. I tried to redeem myself by turning for whoever had to run home- but soon showed myself to be "double handed" and was told not to bother. I admired the skill that it took. It had a rhythm all of its own. I wanted to learn so badly but no one had the patience to teach me; and so I quickly lost interest. But something always nagged at me. Real Black girls jumped Double Dutch. I couldn't.


A few years later I was starting to come into my own but there were still some things I couldn't do. I could not braid hair. Cornrows or even more intricate styles were definitely not my calling. To this day, I cannot even do simple twisting of locks or a French braid for someone. It wasn't for lack of trying, either. I practiced tirelessly on my dolls but never quite picked it up. This was a longing like no other, and probably the only one that still somewhat haunts me to this day. There is a sisterhood so innate to that act. It lends itself to an intimacy and caring that I have never been able to extend through nimble fingers. Even as a teenager, I hated it when a boy I was seeing had to sit between some other girl's legs to have his hair done. Hated it.


Since we're talking about adolescence, I don't have to relay how much body image can wreak havoc on your peace of mind and self esteem during those formidable years. I was a twig. A whopping 97 pounds soaking wet while wearing a tool belt and holding a brick. Once, in high school I was sent back to class during a blood drive for not weighing enough. No big deal, save for the fact that everyone else seemed to budding in places I wasn't. The girls I went to school with had bodacious booties and full breasts. They commanded attention but to the boys, I was invisible. I grew to despise the word "Thick" since that was how they described the sexier, more womanly physiques that walked by. "Damn, yo. She is thick! " I tried everything to gain weight. I drank a milkshake with every meal and even ate grits right before going to bed. Because I heard that made you...thick. And real Black girls were. I wasn't.

As I said before, I've come to accept a lot about myself and learned to love who I am. I understand now that women of color come in all shapes and shades. I no longer grapple with being the quintessential Soul Sister. I don't have any hang-ups about not being Black enough in the eyes of my peers. Life has steered me away from toxic people and self deprecating ideas. For that I am grateful. I'm not the little girl who was scared to speak for fear of being laughed at anymore. It's not so bad that I don't jump (or turn) Double Dutch. I outgrew that game. One of these days, I'm going to learn how to twist some hair and make it look presentable. And honestly, I have a pretty nice chassis for those who've ever been lucky enough to steal a glance. It feels good to be me. A mixed up cocktail of exotic Caribbean blood that spans the four corners of the map. All in all, I'd say I have nothing to prove.