This World Has Taught Me To Hate Myself As A Black Person And Sometimes I Accidentally Do

There are moments when I catch myself accidentally believing the lie that black is less.
It’s been fed to us for so long.

I hear it in the way we criticise our African governments. The way we comment on their incompetence and incapabilities.
They’re not stupid or incapable, they’re corrupt. And so are other governments all over the world. I don’t live under the rule of an African government so I won’t understand the frustration of those who do, but should we be mimicking the narrative that we just aren’t as capable as Europe or the white man/woman - no I don’t think we should.

I hear it in the way I sometimes catch others and myself looking at other black people differently. 
The way I’m half expecting new black girls I meet to not like me or be off with me. The way I presume black boys are judging me when I walk past. I love every time that I’m proved wrong. But it also reminds me that I’m starting to digest the hate I’ve been subtly fed. The poor narrative that black people are rude and stand-offish and difficult to get along with. Don’t get me wrong, I have definitely had my experiences of that. But I’ve also experienced the complete opposite. Just like within everybody else, there is the good, the bad and the ugly inside. Depending on the day or moment we all show a different side.
Enough people in the world will look at us as less than (don’t let your instagram feed fool you). Let’s not join in.

I hear it in the way men disrespect black women.
Black women are difficult. A sentence I often hear from the mouths of black men. Once, I was told this and wondered oh no are we? No. We are not difficult for wanting to be approached with respect. We aren’t difficult for not wanting to give out a number, chat to you on the street or go home with you if we don’t want to. Don’t consume the age old narrative of the angry black woman. We’re just people, same as allowed-to-have-a-range-of-emotions white women.

I hear it in the way I harshly judge my body and over sexualise myself
The pressure I put on myself to look like someone’s dream girl because I’ve been fed over and over again that the body of a black woman is one of her principle assets as a person. She must dazzle with it or what purpose does she have? The pressure that there is to have hair nails and makeup on fleek. Funny how no-one seems to pressure us to come as we are.

I see it in the way I thought concentrated blackness wasn’t beautiful.
I grew up wanting, not to be white but closer to whiteness, in hair texture, in last name, in skin tone.
In primary school I really wanted to be like the white girls because I wanted to be beautiful. I didn’t want to be ugly, or just not as good. Movements are going now to change my mind and probably others too. But are we being taught to see the beauty in blackness, or have we just adopted a version of whiteness and made it our own?

I see it in the way I change myself to be ‘more english’ around white people I don’t know.
Like I’m trying to be more likeable, more palatable for them to digest. But who says blackness isn’t likeable? The narrative I’ve been taught through the countless characterisations of the rude/lazy/criminal black friend in TV and movies.

So where does hope come in?
Right here: God gave me this skin suit, that this world has used as an indicator of less, and said it’s wonderful. That I’m a marvellous creation and my soul already knows it. Psalm 139.
The most creative being called me wonderful. Called us wonderful.
So my soul must teach my brain and my brain teach my heart this truth.
If you’ve accidentally consumed hate for yourself too, then do the same.