Dark-Skinned Women are Winning and It's Time to Tell That Story
No, this isn’t a think piece that dissects the sad plight of black women who as we all know have it really hard.
We are the least loved or desired and we are constantly fighting for acceptance and respect not just from white folk but even the men that were built to love us.
The tales of woe that are unleashed from survivors or those trying to survive are grippingly affecting and make the rounds almost weekly — with avid displays of recognition from readers who either empathize or sympathize.
Yes. Being a black woman does have its disadvantages and the list reads like a scroll of primal damnation and must make women who are not black filled with gratitude that somehow the lottery of life — furnished an escape route from what seems to be a lifelong expanse of selected torture.
Beyoncé’s Lemonade was a juicy delight and not just because the marketing machine behind the campaign astutely gauged the immeasurably profound loyalty black women have for each other — but also because it highlighted the power and might of communal sisterhood.
Women regardless of race and creed basically undergo similar rituals in life that connect us beyond the competitive range that men adhere to when they need to decide our percentage of fuckability.
I don’t want to bequeath Beyonce with the main reason why I have become even more determined to save women of color from the daunting stigma of being instinctively regulated to the sidelines — while others that aren’t more special take the glory.
But she honestly did.
I always understood the vibes and the truths of our existence but for whatever reason watching that intrusive symphony scattered my brain to reassemble the glory of all the pride I feel as a black woman.
No. I’m not mixed with Indian, Asian or Caucasian blood. My hair doesn’t naturally ruffle up into lazy bun after the elements batter it senselessly. My skin doesn’t give way to a reddish tint when the sun has its way.
But, my nose is cutely broad for my face and I reject the narrow version I’ve been taught to review.
I am a Black African woman from Abia, State in the Eastern region of Nigeria.
And I deserve your respect which can be funneled from the respect I’ve always had for myself.
Feel free to partake. There is plenty of it to go round.
These days — I’m feeling even more amazingly secure in the reality of my undiluted blackness because there is evidence to suggest that I picked the right team.
The main source of my contentment is strewn from an image that caught me unawares not too long ago.
It is a beautiful illustration of what it means to watch the unimaginable come true.
As a young girl — I had the acting bug and thankfully I nurtured it through school performances and recitals but when I got older it occurred to me that being an actress wouldn’t work out.
It was the nineties and honestly black girls who looked like me were not celebrated as worthy of a shot.
Music videos by rappers overflowed with biracial girls who looked the part but damn — the one dark black chick out of the bunch was always timed out way too soon.
The world of cinema was just as foul.
If you didn’t look like Halle Berry, Vanessa Williams or Lela Rochon — you were basically assed out.
My hopes of conquering that world regardless of my passion and capabilities were thwarted by my realization that I wasn’t brave enough to internalize the obvious.
I was too black to make it.
And if that’s true in your own community it sure as hell won’t be the reverse in the white community.
But that photo.
The picture of the cast of the Broadway hit Eclipsed — written by Zimbabwean- American playwright and actress — Danai Gurira — and starring among others — Oscar-winning actress Lupita Nyong’o — a Mexican-born Kenyan actress.
This is an exceptional feat that I refuse to glaze over because it’s so much easier to believe that the sour depiction of black women will win all the votes.
The reportage of all the ills society douses on us isn’t misinterpreted or misleading — it’s just suffocatingly unbalanced.
We’ve become obsessed with the ideals of journalism that isn’t banked on the soul of a writer desperately pleading for readers to consider a more humane approach.
It’s more about click bait and slyly exposing the ugliness of racism in order to give competitors a margin wide enough to permit you to silently declare victory.
This practice yields fruitful results — but at what cost?
We’ve already established beyond reasonable doubt that black women do suffer at the hands of their own — including the outside forces that have been permitted to assault accordingly.
I am now presenting a picture of dark-skinned black women — who look like me and share my background with a signal that the best is yet to come.
Lemonade gave me goosebumps but Eclipsed brought on the waterworks.
Both ambiances serve the same purpose but only one of the two vices motivates me deeply.
The women standing there — being heralded for a history-making event on Broadway — looking every bit of what I was assured would be blasphemy — twenty years ago — is almost too miraculous to manage.
Look at their outfits! The African Diaspora never looked so organically inclined. The hair that isn’t pressed to perfection or gelled to the point of recklessness.
The skin. Those complexions are riotously lacking in the dire fundamentals that ruled my universe at at a time when I was impressionable and ripe with wonderment.
Dark-skinned women are winning! Finally!
Out time has come and it is so good to see how well we can receive the adulation that we shouldn’t ever have to beg for or demand.
Understand that if this picture of black women who don’t have the assistance of superior blood flowing through their veins had been my guide back in the day — I would probably be rehearsing for a play staged in the backwoods of Massachusetts right about now.
This rant is being implemented for the purpose of letting black girls who dream of stardom in any plausible form — to stop daring to dream.
Just dream.
Dream like your white counterparts who aren’t reliant on the limitations and bigotry of an industry that refuses to bate you — because believe me they will.
You are lucky to happen upon a time that has advanced and is ready and willing to accommodate the trend of the moment — diversity.
But better yet — you have the blessing of Broadway stars who don’t reek of the exotic mix that is supposed to sexily mystify or catapult talentless bimbos to fame.
Sorry Paula Patton — you’re the banner girl for this one.
You can own your rhetoric until it’s translated to a weighty transaction that will give you the ticket to boundless opportunities.
Including starring in a movie that allows you to play a role that inhabits the First Lady of the United States of America.
These are good times and we need to make these stories just as vital and viral.
Light-skinned, brown-skinned, dark-skinned — we want them to be all the same but for me the difference is blindingly clear.
I’m no separatist — but when I look at the photo of the girls who look like me — decked out — reveling in the moment of assigned recollection from the ages to the present — I am must certainly a very biased and very black girl.
