I’m a black girl. When I was little girl I never saw it as a big deal. It was just the color of my skin. I have many identities but my race has always had a recurrent role in my life. My Race. When I bring up this identity I don't do it for sympathy or empathy it's just one thing in my life that I can sometimes struggle with. Me identifying as a black girl can be bad in some places and good in others. It's not like I can try and identify as anything else. Sometimes I didn't even realize that my race was involved in a situation. Sometimes I wouldn't even realize that I was being insulted or even looked at as something that you can use to make yourself look “woke.”

In middle school I didn't want to be black. That's when I finally realized how much race can affect a person. I remember looking at all the white girls with their long straight blond hair and nice skin while I was brown with short curly brown hair. The hair was my biggest issue. I felt I couldn't fit in because of my hair so I permed it and straightened it 24/7. In the 6th grade all my hair broke off so I got braid to conceal my damaged hair. By the middle of 6th grade My hair grew back but my insecurities grew back as well. I remember one time when I got it permed and straightened professionally, when the lady finished I begged her not to put a little bump at the end but my mom insisted that I do it because it will look strange if i didn't. (By the way she was right.) I remember feeling really good about myself though. My hair was past my shoulders and could blow in the wind like the other girls, but that stupid bump at the ends made me look like i just walked out of the 70’s. I went to school and went about my day I could hear people kind of whisper when I walked by. One guy even tried to say something but I cut him off before he could finish. At the end of the day I got on the bus I had completely forgot about my hair and stood over a seat to talk to someone. The usual rambunctiousness of the back of the bus became silent. I heard whispers but didn't pay it any mind. I don't exactly remember how my hair came up in the conversation but when it did others decided to chip in. That same guy that I had cut off earlier told me that it looked like a snow cone. People laughed and I could even respond but he was kind of right. But that didn't matter it hurt my feelings. Then one of the only other black girls in the school (who I’m not surprisingly very close with now) walked past me to get off the bus looked to me, laughed and said, “I like your hair.” And walked off the bus dying of laughter. That was the last straw. That made me want to jump of the bus and run all the way home but i just sat down and held in tears for the rest of bus ride. I thought if anything she would be ally because she was a black girl just like me. When I got off the bus I ran to my house, jumped on my bed and burst into tears. My sister came home from school soon after and found me. I explained what happened and I could see the New York side of her coming out. She was enraged. She said that she was going to get on the bus with me the next day which in my mind just made it worse. She never ended up going on the bus, thank goodness. I don't really remember much else about that day. I know that i skipped my homework and just watched youtube tutorials of hair. All of the videos were white girls with long straight hair. From them on to the beginning of 8th grade I made it my job to have straight hair. All of this just damaged my hair all over again and forced me back to wearing braids. Even then I still tried to play off anything said about my hair. I would get the is that your real hair?

Questions or your hair is so cool!  Comments. Like I was some weird thing that no one had ever seen before. I couldn't figure it out then but now its like Ive seen the light. That anxious self conscious eleven year old is finally gone but I’m not going to lie she does pop up once in awhile. Instagram beauty gurus black youtubers and activist accounts really helped me. Seeing other black girls hair made me realize that my hair and my skin isn't some new thing that no one has ever heard of.

I don't really know how to conclude this essay because there is so much more that I can say about what it feels like to be a black girl in America. The are struggles and downfalls but in the end I really do enjoy the skin I’m in. I love my unpredictable hair, I love my brown skin, I love breaking the stereotypes of who I am or who I’m supposed to be. I truly wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.