BLAME THE MELANIN 

“I’ve never been with a black girl before.” Those words were supposed to make me feel honored, to make me feel like being his “first black girl” was a prize. It was meant to make me feel like a winner. The only thing it made me feel was hatred. Honestly, I didn’t want to sleep with him at that point. Like many young girls, I have always wanted the modern day Cinderella story. The issue with this story is that Prince Charming used is white. The view of my perfect guy was essentially the stereotypical guy that Elle Woods would go for, and I was illegally black. Legally speaking I’d be considered an African-American, but that isn't the case anymore. Either way, I am a person, more specifically, an American of “African” descent, but I am also a woman. Being all of these things simultaneously is nearly oxymoronic. The term "American" does not imply non-European descent which is why everything else is hyphenated. I am a suburban black kid, and like the hyphen, I am often forgotten. What is not forgotten is that to American culture, my black skin is a commodity because it is exotic to white hands. Perhaps I would be exotic if I was still African. White boys still whisper to me that I am “pretty for a black girl,” as if it is supposed to make me feel better about being black. I do not want their condolences. I do not, have not, nor will I ever need the white, or whitewashed masses to tell me that I am pretty in comparison to Eurocentric beauty standards. Fuck you, and your beauty standards. Fuck you, and your Eurocentrism. Honestly, fuck you and Europe for all I care.

It is hard being a black female in America because it is hard to fit into either one of the aforementioned labels in America due to the cultural implications of being either black or a woman. Being black means that you are a commodity from the view of American history.Individuals lie about equality. They are wrong. The 13th amendment didn’t abolish slavery; it changed it. Niggas are still struggling in school due to de facto segregation, which is arguably worse than the law. White America attempts to say that since racism and discrimination are hidden that it isn't real. White America is wrong.

Note to my brothers and sisters: Racism still exists. No one will go to your face and call you a nigger, but they’ll think it. They won’t ask you to get back on the plantation, but they’ll expect you to want to work for them. They still want you to learn their language and code switch to them whilst abiding by the rules they’ve made to keep you under their control. You will try and break the chains, but they’ve concocted a monster to keep you it’s bitch. This monster is called capitalism. Capitalism will bend you over more times than a man ever will and you’ll tell yourself you like it.

There is a thin line between economic rape and the physical thing. Both will make you feel powerless and you will blame society for either action, but there is no solution for the phsycial rape. We only have a sactuary for its emotional responses. Studies show that “fear of rape is, in addition, partly shaped by women’s perceptions about their own self-efficacy…” (Pryor). I’m sorry I didn’t realize that my fear of rape, as in “penetration... of [my] vagina...without [my] consent” was a result of my inability to obtain my goals (Federal Bureau of Investigation). That’s it, my inability to raise my GPA is the reason why I am afraid of the fact that I could be penetrated by a man at any given moment. My self-efficacy is the reason why I am afraid of the looks I get from across the hall, why I question every smile I get, and why I never put my drink down at parties. I didn’t know that my “fear of rape is, in addition, partly shaped by women’s perceptions about their own...ability to defend themselves from sexual attack” (Pryor). So, taking a kickboxing class will reduce my fear of rape. No, “exposure therapy...helps reduce the power [that traumatic events] have” (Prolonged Exposure Therapy). That’s it, getting raped will reduce my fear of rape. If experience is the only thing that will cure my fear of rape then maybe I should relive that moment. The moment when I was vulnerable. The moment that I could not stop.

Note to my sisters: There is an extremely thick line between the the body of a woman and the body of a black woman. White women will continue to link themselves to your struggle in an effort to say that due to the common anatomy that you are one in the same. Please, remind them that the common anatomy didn't mean shit to them when you and your father were in chains. Explain to them that common anatomy didn't mean shit until it was in your pants. Remind them that your anatomy has kept you powerless and you will not allow them to use the same justificiation for unity that has been used for separation. Then, turn to her father and tell him that there is a thin line between economic and phsycial rape. 

Perhaps the main similarity is that we blame men for both even though they are affected.

He stepped into the shower, one foot after the other. His clothes were left by the door in a unkempt pile. This was his ritual, the water flowed down his body, droplets collected on various parts of his sculpted anatomy. Pools of water gathered in the depths of his collar bones. He saw me watching him, but he was distracted by my presence. He wanted to put on a show. If I wasn’t so close I would’ve kicked back and grabbed a beer. I didn’t even like beer, but he made me want one. The water droplets kissed every curve and cut on him, some water rejected its community to splash off his abs like they were afraid of the definition. He was wetter than I was in that moment. And that’s just it. It’s almost taboo to think of men as objects, as sex toys, as talking dildos, but men can think of women in similar terms, a lifelike blow up doll except the blowing goes the other way, or pussies you keep in your contacts list instead of your pocket. Females, as soon as they begin to enter womanhood are looked at in a sexual manner. Their chest are not being prepped to feed children, but something to play with while men practice the process of making children. Their lips are no longer used to whisper innocent thoughts, but kissed while men fumble around the idea of making love.

When the human body is examined through an erotic lens, culture does not suggest images of men, of sculpted pectoral muscles, of penises. Society will suggest images of bare breasts, feminine curves, delicate edges, of women. Perhaps this is because historically speaking women should have been taught to be subservient, to be ornamental. It is the “bad girls” that have made history by ruining this preconceived notion of patriarchy. These “bad girls” have ruined our culture's view of subordination and now women are still living in patriarchal societies, but no longer fit into their molds. The way that culture combats the strong woman and inherently combats feminism and gender equality is by oversexualizing the women of today. The various issues with this thinking are that it, like in history, does not only apply to women, but to little girls as well. This thinking creates the ability of minority women to be fetished. This concept allows women to be chained to their anatomy.

Young girls are no longer taught to play with toys, they are toys. In many cases we are reverting to the older societies in which girls at the age of twelve are married off to men double, if not triple their age. The general society no longer cherishes childhood. “Thongs [are] marketed to 6-year old girls…[and are] dancing...to their favourite pop star’s very adult lyrics” (Hypersexualization). Girls are taught, not how to be women, but how to be objects, to be slut shamed, to be toys. They are not playing with barbies, they are becoming them.

Pretend now that these girls grow up in this world and become women. What are they to know? They will not know a world outside of their sexuality, they will not know a world outside of being hypersexualized. They will sit on benches and try to read books while men make comments about their appearances (Klinkenberg). They will get into physical fights with men they do not know because they cannot clinch their tongues (Klinkenberg). They will walk into gas stations trying to be normal individuals of society and they will get called “babygirl,” or “hun,” or something else that isn’t “miss” or their name. They will not be able to express their sexuality without being called a slut, or a whore, or anything that isn’t “miss” or their name. Their name won’t matter to anyone except their families and even then it still may not be relevant to the conversation at hand. They will go to parties and will not be able to trust anyone. They will go to parties and will not be able to leave their drink. They will go to parties and won’t be able to drink too much. They will be told they cannot dance the way they would like to. They will be taught that they are still the barbie that they never got to play with.

Cat calling will not always come in the form of whistles by construction sites, Sometimes it’s the way a boy looks at you, knowing he’s undressing you with his eyes. You might as well push your cleavage up and wear the shortest shorts you can find because it’s the less time you feel their eyes staring past your clothing, past your curves, but just above your soul. They don’t want to know you, they don’t want to be with you, they want to be inside of you. Get used to the fact that everything you do is being thought of sexually. You can’t dress like that or else you’re a slut. You can’t dance like that or else you’re asking for it. You can’t talk like that or else it was your idea. Society will be the devil on your shoulder telling you that you are never going to be good enough to make your own decisions. If you fuck him, you’re a slut. If you don’t, you’re a prude. Society will be whispering that you can NEVER win.

It get’s worse for women, not better.

I suppose this was him playing with me, but this game was no fun. I was staring at the ceiling. As I stared, I screamed. I got lost in those screams. Lost in my thoughts. I was trying to figure out what to feel. I knew it was intended to be pleasurable, and for him I suppose it was, but for me, it felt painful and disgusting. Thoughts of the first time I cut myself flooded my memory. I remembered how cold the blade felt against my skin. It was like snow in Hell, strange yet pleasant. The blood dripped from my arm and stained the memory of my thighs. Perhaps if had instead cut those thighs his fingernails could reopen those wounds so I could forget he was there. So I could forget he was inside of me. So I could forget. This was all the same. The same awkward feeling of something being inside of me. The only difference was that I was being penetrated by something warm and the blood originated between those thighs. They were my thighs. I felt empty like there was nothing inside of me. Not even me. I should not have felt empty, there were at least three bowls of Raisin Bran in my stomach accompanied by an entire bottle of Amsterdam. There were intestines and other vital organs. Hell, there were even two sets of sex organs in my body, but I was still empty. I am still empty. It is not enough to say that I am full of life, or sex organs of individuals whose names do not fill my mouth, or food, or liquor. I am still empty.

I suppose it is only possible to feel the emptiness when I am sober, so that’s the answer. Numb is the answer. I never stay sober long enough to experience the pain and the depression for more than five minutes. Each drink, each pill, each bowl, each strip, each cut has a sense of validity to me. It keeps me sane. Sane in the sense of operational. Yes, these vices keep me operational. They keep me normal or at least give me the ability to appear normal. Everything has its purpose. These vices are my writings on Sunday mornings. After a prayer to a god that I am not sure exists I self-medicate. Each bottle, once emptied will give birth to a new stanza, and each ounce once consumed will give birth to a new title, and each pill, once digested will give birth to new insight, and each cut, once engraved will give birth to the emotion behind it all. I continue through my typical lack of sobriety because each drunken night, each smoke session, each pill breaks the chains the bind me in the cage of my own mind. It is all worth it for the glimpse of freedom even if I will be thrown back in that cage at first dawn.

I find myself wishing I’ll find something to fill the empty space. I find myself hoping for happiness. I pray that I can stop the destructive behavior. It seems however that one does not associate anything other than destruction with euphoria and thus my addictions continue to define my days. My mind does what any normal mind does on a number of narcotics mine is typically on and it wanders. With each place, my mind flutters, not with beauty or the essence of merit, but it shudders like the cold lifeless ripple of the water in a lake. My lips have kissed goodbye to the sense of humanity that once took its form in the soul that lived beneath my eyes. Those same lips also are too often found pressed to the edge of a glass. It is the same cycle. The drink devours my sanity. With each sip, I can feel it slither away from my body only to vanish into the air. I stumble into the air with my sanity, separating myself from the body I spent my days captured in. Tears pour out of those same eyes as the world fades into darkness. I then promise myself that I will not drown in the tears that I have too often let fall to my cheek. I promise myself that I will not choke on the words that I am too weak to say. It is the same cycle. It was my release until I realized that there is no release from the chains of your own addictions. This slavery is self-imposed and very much legal. That is the beautiful thing about the 13th Amendment to the Constitution and its addendum. If slavery is only legal as a punishment for a crime, what am I guilty of? My crime is only that I would not participate in the expected conformity. I am a slave to my addictions which means my father lied to me. Daddy told me that, “We all submit to something or someone. That doesn’t make you a bitch. It makes you human.” The very nature of humanity is submission and maybe Daddy is too close to his own addictions to realize that he has already become their bitch.

Maybe it’s genetic, the insanity. After all, I am the product of a depressed, suicidal male that is trapped in his own adolescence. A self-proclaimed schizophrenic that cannot truly be called “Daddy.” The drug dealer army brat that abandoned me for his own botanical ventures. Not to mention the drug-addict whore who has not earned the title of mother. An ex-psychiatric patient that has more vices than I do. The pastor’s daughter who gave up on her intelligence to shake her ass and dance around a pole. I was raised by my grandmother who is a woman that is more concerned with her reputation than my mental health. Maybe the insanity is genetic. So, excuse me if I seem a little bit off my rocker. Blame the drugs I chose to take. Blame the drugs I didn’t choose to take. Blame the god that abandoned me. Blame the drugs. Blame religion. Blame society. Blame whoever the fuck you want to. I’ll blame the corrupted genetics that forced itself into my jeans. Every rape victim is fundamentally crazy anyways. Damn PTSD.

Perhaps if I had spent more time in church groing up I would be able to live my life on the sustance of the blood of Christ instead of constantly having to spill my own and find wine as a substitue to fill myself. Maybe if I had more friends there would be someone to pass the bread to next time. Even if I am alone, there is still piece of my sanity that searches for communion. 

Some piece of my "sanity" wishes to see each even in life as strings of the same tapestry then my entire tapestry is black. Black as in powerful (Parker). Black as in elegant (Parker). Black as in evil (Parker). Black as in a damn mystery (Parker). What Parker fails to mention in the “Meaning of Color” is the association of race. Parker states that, “black denotes strength and authority,” but ignores that blacks have been considered lesser individuals. Black is the lack of authority. Maybe my insanity is my way of coping with being one of the 50 shades of grey produced by cultural appropriation. I am both evil and goodness (Parker). A blend of white and black. No, this is not a blend this is the colonialism of my blood. This is the internal battle of the black body. Look at the page, there are black letters trapped inside of the white margins. Being a middle-class “African-American” means becoming those letters. It means stuffing yourself inside of the parameters of a society that you do not fundamentally belong to. I have been segregated from the rest of black society while attempting to be integrated into the white masses of America. There is no place for the black kid to call home. The stratification of society has only gotten larger with suburban black kids slipping through the cracks only to be labeled as other. To be labeled as Oreo. To be labeled as white. To be labeled as not really black. To be labeled. It is as if by becoming suburban we became sub-black. It is as if it was not enough to strip the black kids of the title of African, but now we are being stripped of the title black. “Even the African kids are trying to forget Africa” (Bolanle). They can attempt to strip themselves of their culture, of their heritage, but I will never be stripped of the title Nigger so that is why I have claimed the word and swished it around my black tongue. Now I am a nigga and I suppose it is still the same Negro skin and Negro hair and Negro ancestry that was in chains, but it is a new black. It is a new orange if you will because orange is not the new black. Black is the new African. Negro is the new Nigger. Nigga is the new Negro and so nigga is the new black. I am the new black. I am a nigga.

That is where we break the insanity. The blacks, whose histories began when chains reached the Land of the Free have separated themselves from the African blood that was captured. “I am not an African-American. Would you call every white person you see a European American? Of course not...We need to stop pretending that Africa isn’t a diverse continent (Cooper). To the people naturalized in the motherland however, “the term African-American is politically correct” I suppose, but it would be nice for them to have the distinction of a country, of a tribe, of a bloodline (Bolanle). They cannot have that. Similarly, I cannot tell you who I am as a person or my personal identity without establishing first that I am a nigga.

Some people still believe race shouldn’t matter and in some instances they would be correct, but when it comes to my identity and how I got to where I am today, this is a race issue. Race is the only issue I truly have. I have an issue with the fact I must allow myself to accept any terminology that seems close enough of a fit to my skin. I will be called 925, a beggar, double A-batteries, and more (Racial Slur Database). I will be called Nigger by people that have forgotten its origin and its offense. I will be called coon by people that feel as if I am sub-black. I will be called bitch by people that feel like I should obey them. I will be called African American by statistics. I will be called everything except my name.

My tapestry is black, and more black, and more black. Strange how they call us colored folk and and my personal identity only has one color. Funny thing about being black is that black ain’t even a color. Black is the absence of color and yet I’m still one of the colored folk. I do not know how to define my personal identity in the terms of my own life let alone the stories of someone else’s. What I do know is that people will always be shaped by the cultures around them and their histories if they have the means to trace them. As someone who can’t find her roots and can’t find her branches I must find an alternative. Maybe the other branches were stripped from the tree to create the loom for my tapestry.

If stripping was necessary for the creation of my tapestry then my mother did a fantastic job. That is one quality my mother was always very good at. Like a chameleon she was able to transform herself from a pastor's daughters to an exotic dancer. She tucked away her intelligence and her Christian morals so that she could pretend to love and attempt to fabricate a world for herself to exist in. So my mother explored the darkest corners of the brothel to find it. The men she pulled out were not kings; they weren’t even royalty. My mother sacrificed her crown and her sword for an empty covenant of love. The indentations on her knees were no longer from the kneelers in the church, but I suppose the pain in her feet was still from being at work all night. 

When little black girls examine global history they do not find their stories written by their blood, they see it written in it. Our ancestors blood has stained the plantation grounds, been smeared across the foundations of businesses, and continuously taken for granted. This African blood is now diluted, but still exotic. Little black girls search for histories similar to their own, but there is nothing. Jewish people went into Auschwitz and came out Jews. Africans went to America and came out Black. Black people in America are not truly African Americans. The only reason why we are given the blanket statement of African American is because it is impossible to determine which country or tribe our ancestors came from before being stripped of everything they once knew. Not only are we unable to know where they came from, but we are separated from any royalty we would have once been entitled because the royal bloodline disintegrated in the veins of the passengers of the first slave ships as soon as they left the shore.

Every little black girl is taught they’re royalty even though their is no way to prove it. Every little black girl is not royal in reality. This lie is the only way that black parents can avoid crushing the innocence of their daughters and yet we have no modern queens to look to. If the royal blood disintegrated, how then are little black girls royal? A queen must then learn from great queens in the histories in which they have access; a little black girl’s experience is based off of the learned fear of white supremacy. That is slavery not royalty. Should we allow mothers to be the example for their daughters? The obvious answer is yes, but there are some instances where the only thing that your mother has learned has been the anatomy of men, do you want to learn it?

The reason why strippers use fake names is to not only draw in men by demeaning themselves by not giving the respect of a real name, but to also separate themselves from their actions because a part of them is ashamed of their actions. For my mother it was Princess, Angel, Miss Thang, etc. I haven’t yet learned to disguise my sexual escapades through aliases for my other aliases. I never learned to feel ashamed for my actions. Perhaps that is due to my lack of religious conviction. 

I am not a giver; I get that from my father. I am not merciful; I get that from my grandmother. I am not faithful; I get that from my mother. I am not chaste; I get that from both of my parents, and my grandparents, and most likely their parents as well. I am not trustworthy; I get that from my mother. I am not lenient; I get that from my grandfather. I am not serious; I get that from my mother. I am not religious; I get that from my father. I am however considered to be bold and courageous, but that comes from the learned habits of black skin in America. Perhaps if ties were not cut to my royal ancestry I would’ve learned to be all of the things I am not, maybe Tillie and my mother would have learned as well. Perhaps the learned behavior of every little black girl would not be to pretend she is a princess to escape the fact that when she reaches sexual maturity she will be raped more times than she can count between life and the men in it.

There is no escape from your depression. It will follow you and your ancestors until your bloodline purges itself. I am still surviving on the misery of my ancestors: the ones that threw themselves overboard and the ones that tried to run North. That is what it meant to be black in America then, and that's what it will always mean. Einstein said that insanity was doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. Niggas are still selling out and killing niggas and wonder why we still haven't gotten our 40 acres. The sanity doesn't come for the insane, but insanity will always find the sane. Living in this world will drive you crazy, and death will find you after you swallow enough of your saliva over time. It doesn't get better, but when you think that it has you will realize that you are right back where you started. Your depression brings you right back to the beginning, and he wonders why he's never been with a black girl before.