There’s something about the black women in I.

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 any 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 am 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 get *****, it was going to be my fault.

Every day I’m inspired by all these black queens out there trying to save themselves from man speculation, but I seem to be more in the men side than in the woman side.

That's why I started to hate my body, but I was sure that my heart did not match what my brain said, what I thought.

Because of the men's disparaging opinion 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 that they understood what was happening, but the women I spoke with seemed to be as much in agreement with men as I was. Now it was not just the men calling me "*****" because of how I dressed…now it was also the women making me feel bad.

I realized that women could also be sexist.

All this time I have been hating myself for the opinion of people who could be worse off than me, whether 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 got dressed again like I did before, I talked about all the subjects I wanted without fear of being classified as a ***** or a ***** by the people I was talking to or the people who were listening to me. Now I was following the example of all those black women who inspired me. I felt free and liberated, I did not fear the critical eye of all those men and women who made me feel bad about myself.

But we all have a weakness.
My weakness was myself.

I no longer needed anyone to tell me all those horrible things that people used to tell me, because I told them myself. I woke up every day telling me how disgusting I was and how no one would be able to love me because of the way I am, because of the color of my skin, the way I think, because I am myself.
My friends tried to help me, giving me advice, telling me things like "Hope you realize how valuable you are so you won't let anyone underestimate you", but the only one underestimating me was myself.

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

It's difficult, I know, but I have to do it.
Maybe that's how I will learn to love myself as my friends love me. Maybe I can overcome all this and be the great woman I want to be, maybe I can teach my brain that what it says about me does not affect me.

I am sure that I will achieve it.

But even there, there's going to be something about the black woman in I that I can’t figure out.

And I never will.