There’s something about the black women in I that I can’t figure out.
I wake up in my bed every morning wishing I could go out and spend time with my friends
Without some disrespectful ***** yelling at me:
“Ay, yo ma!” or “What a *****, mama—let me taste you.”

I’m sure my name isn’t Ay, yo ma.
I’m sure I’m not your ma.

But I used to blame myself for that.
I used to tell myself that all those men were attracted to me because of my body.
I used to tell myself that, if I ever got *****, it would be my fault.

Every day, I’m inspired by all these Black queens out there
Trying to save themselves from men's speculation—
But I seemed to be more on the men's side than the women's.

That’s why I started to hate my body.
But deep down, I was sure my heart didn’t match what my brain said.
Didn’t match what I thought.

Because of men’s disparaging opinions of me,
I began to hate my body,
The way I dressed,
The way I spoke,
The way I expressed myself…
The way I wrote.

I used to open up to others so they could understand what was happening,
But the women I spoke with seemed to agree with the men just as much as I did.
Now it wasn’t just the men calling me “*****” because of how I dressed—
Now it was also the women making me feel ashamed.

I realized that women could also be sexist.

All this time,
I’ve been hating myself for the opinions of people
Who might be worse off than me—
Economically, socially, physically, or mentally.
And I knew it.

Still,
There was something about the black woman in I that I couldn’t figure out.

I’m not going to lie—
I started dressing again like I did before.
I talked about whatever I wanted without fear
Of being labeled a ***** or a *****
By the people I spoke to
Or the ones who overheard.

I was finally following the example of all those Black women who inspired me.
I felt free. Liberated.
I no longer feared the critical eyes of the men and women who once made me feel so small.

But we all have a weakness.
Mine was myself.

I no longer needed anyone to say those horrible things to me,
Because I said them to myself.
I woke up every day telling myself how disgusting I was,
How no one would ever love me—
Not with the way I am,
Not with the color of my skin,
Not with the way I think.
Not if I’m just… me.

My friends tried to help.
They gave me advice.
They told me things like:

    “I hope you realize how valuable you are, so you don’t let anyone underestimate you.”

But the only one underestimating me…
Was me.

I always try to be strong for the people who love me.
I always pretend to love myself so they don’t worry.
I always keep in mind that I don’t want my daughters to go through what I’m going through.

It’s difficult—
I know.
But I have to do it.

Maybe that’s how I’ll learn to love myself the way my friends love me.
Maybe I can overcome all this and become the great woman I want to be.
Maybe I can teach my brain that what it says about me doesn’t define me.

I am sure that I’ll achieve it.

But even then—
There will be something about the black woman in I that I can’t figure out.

And I never will.