I am just a 22-year-old Black woman born and raised in East Palo Alto, California. I come from a family of Black matriarchs: my momma, my grandma, and my aunties. I come from a family rich in love, food, culture, and filled with a lot of melanin.

 

Even though this is true, my beautiful Black matriarchs never sat me down to talk about the troubles I would go through as a Black woman. They just said the usual, “You are beautiful, Marisha” and “Be obedient, Marisha.” I thought what they said could not mean anything too deep because, obviously, all women’s grandmothers, mothers, and aunties reminded their young girls how beautiful they were. Not only that, but I also believed that all women, at a young age, were told to be obedient.

 

I felt that there was nothing different about my girlhood versus a Latina, White, or even an Asian’s girlhood. The only thing that made me different from the rest was my dark skin. Soon enough however, I found out how different my experience was and will be for the rest of my life.

 

It was spring semester of my freshmen year at Mount Holyoke College when everything changed for me. My Gender Studies professor made us read Kimberle Crenshaw’s article about Anita Hill’s sexual harassment case against Clarence Thomas. I was eighteen, Black, a woman, and never heard of a term named “intersectionality.” For the first time, I realized that my story would already be written for me if I tried to defend myself in a case where a Black man could be the abuser. Not only would it be difficult for me to defend myself in front of a White audience, but it would also be difficult to make my own community believe abuse can happen at the hands of our own brothers.

 

Hill’s story opened my eyes to the fact that femininity, support, victimhood, beauty, and womanhood was not and will not be granted to me. These things were not handed to me on a silver platter. When I realized that my Blackness, my womanhood, my history, and much more would leave me fighting for myself, I felt invisible. I felt really invisible. My idea that all women were the same, and the thought that all women were apart of the vision when Suffragists decided to create their movement was shattered. It was a lot to take in at that time.

 

However, throughout my four years in college, I started to pick up those shattered pieces and put my own image together again. I created my image of who I wanted to be as a Black feminist (something I also did not know existed prior to that spring semester). Every now and again, I think about how I was almost six years ago. I believed Black women hated themselves; therefore, they became video-vixens and strippers. I never thought about how sex-work could be actual work. I really thought those Black women who twerk for a living would never succeed.  

 

I blamed US for finding ways to survive, to have a support system, to feel beautiful, and to feel feminine. Although my earlier thoughts were harmful to not only my sistahs, but to myself, those thoughts were helpful. Now, my eyes and mind are open to the wide range of what Black womanhood can consist of. We are not monolithic. We are complex beings.

 

This poem at the beginning of Tamara Winfrey Harris’s book The Sisters are Alright: Changing the Broken Narrative of Black Women In America expresses my new thoughts and appreciation for us all:  

 

I love black women.

I love the Baptist church mothers in white.

I love the YouTube twerkers.

I love the sisters with Ivy League degrees and the ones with GEDs.

I love the big mamas, ma’dears, and aunties.

I love the loc-wearing sisters who smell like shea butter.

I love the ladies of the “Divine Nine.”

I love the “bad bitches” in designer pumps and premium lacefronts.

I love the girls who jumped double Dutch and played hopscotch.

I love the Nam-myoho-rengo-kyo chanters, the seekers, and the atheists.

I love the awkward black girls and the quirky black girls and the black girls who listen to punk.

I love the “standing at the bus stop, sucking on a lollipop” ‘round the way girls.

Black womanhood- with its unique histories and experiences- marks its possessors as something special.

 

I am learning how to love my dark-skin, plus size, Christian, introverted, graduated from a prestigious women college, and Black womanhood first. Although my grandma, mother, and aunties never said specifically, “This is how Black womanhood works,” they were getting me ready. They were getting me ready to be a warrior rich in love, food, culture, and filled with a lot of melanin. For that, I truly thank them.

 

Hay Black Girl, Love Yourself is a blog where I am taking you on my journey to understanding and loving my Black womanhood. Even though this blog will have a lot of 'I', my hope is that 'we' learn from each other. My goal is to connect. I hope that by the end of each blog post, however long or short it may be, that you realize that you are not alone. I hope that the words I write to inspire and figure out things for myself, in turn, helps you to think, analyze, and inspire too. Finally, I really hope that you take these words and discuss it with your girlfriends at the dinner party, your daughters and sons, and even yourself.