#BlackGirlMagic
I want to start this piece by saying that I do not tell this story so that people can comment on how beautiful they think I am, or to sound sad. I tell this story because, unlike many Black girls, I am living to tell it. How can I name my blog "Hay Black Girl, Love Yourself" without you all knowing what incident initiated my journey to loving myself? So, here goes nothing…
Some days I like to sit back and think of what #BlackGirlMagic means because, at one point, I forgot I had it.
While I sat in my quiet and dark dorm room in sophomore year of college, I scrolled through Instagram, and checked Facebook updates. People posted that Kim Kardashian was the best looking woman on Earth, 'I love college' party pictures, and pictures of the athletic, light-skinned girl with perfect curly and light brown hair. I saw these types of pictures and updates, day-in and day-out. It was the norm. I never, once, saw me in these photos or Facebook updates.
In fact, I never saw me in the photos people would describe as most beautiful. I never saw me as apart of the people who “lived life” or was fun enough to hang with. Again, I never saw me in these photos or Facebook updates. “So why be here?” is what I asked myself while I sat in my quiet and dark dorm room. If nobody saw me, then why be here?
As I asked myself those questions, I turned around to look at my closet and my ceiling. I wondered if the ceiling would hold me up if I decided to grab some rope and hang myself. At that moment, I felt the rope tightening around my neck. I felt me dying, and it did not feel great; but the thought of not being here seemed a little more pleasing.
It was pleasure and pain. It was pleasure because I would not have to deal with the constant feeling of invisibility. I would not have to continuously prove myself as dark-skin, plus size, and possibly beautiful anymore. It was painful because I would probably hurt people like my parents and my siblings.
The more I thought about the pleasure versus the pain, the pain and the pleasure, how my roommate would open the dorm room door to find her roommate hanging from the ceiling, and my mom getting the call that her daughter was dead without any explanation; I cried. I cried for almost an hour as I heard God speak to me, and say, “Let the pain go. Let it out.” The pain of not feeling accepted, beautiful, and accomplished for years was too much to hold on to. This cry was cleansing. This cry was necessary.
When I found a little strength again, I decided to not sulk in it any longer. I found pages like Dark Skin Women on Tumblr, and followed them on Instagram. Finding that page on Tumblr was just the beginning. Eventually, I found more pages that celebrated all of what we could look like, and it made me smile. However, I made a mistake when I confused coping with healing.
As a Black woman who wanted to seem like she had it together all of the time, I really did not. As a Black woman who was called “the rock” at her senior high school dorm event, I became water. I realized that I, no longer, was that strong Marisha Banks that can take any and every punch by herself. Although hesitant and afraid, I decided to go to therapy almost two years after my thoughts of suicide.
The thought of going to therapy was hurtful, and it made me feel weak. As I walked into my first therapy session I felt that I was not only letting down my culture, but my Black womanhood. Soon, however, I realized that I did not give myself permission to be vulnerable and to say, “I am not okay”. I internalized society’s story that Black women can and will carry all of the world’s burdens.
When I think of what #BlackGirlMagic means, it sends chills up and down my body. It is more than just a pretty dark-skin face or a bunch of Black women in a picture together with bright-colored clothes and courageous Afros. It is, also, more than keeping a grin on your face when you may want to smack a person! This magic gives you permission to be vulnerable because you are human. This magic gives you permission to not deal with everything, and fight everyone’s battle. This magic is an essence. It is the fact that I am still here, in spite of being deeply affected by beauty standards, colorism within the Black community, and fat shaming.
Being Black and a woman became easier when I stopped looking for the media to validate my external and internal beauty. Everything seemed a little easier when I became okay with hearing my mother say, “Marisha you are so beautiful.” I don’t mean to seem like I don’t struggle with the feeling of invisibility, but I now know that even though experiencing sadness and pain are real, they are very temporary emotions. I want to rewrite the “How to be a Black woman” handbook society handed to me that made me seem simple.
I am Black Girl Magic because I just am. We are Black magic because we just are. We are everything and more.