TGIF. LOL. BRB. TTYL. OMG.
These are just a few of the text abbreviations that helped to maintain a character limit. Way before articulation became a skill of mine, sending fun-loving texts and fangirling over teen sensations with kids all over the world, was my self-expression. Way before emojis, these acronyms allowed us to keep our message content simple, stylish, playful, and fresh. I’m so excited to stir-up nostalgia and get my hands messy by giving the three most influential girls (now women) of my childhood, their well-deserved and well-grown flowers.
Look at those letters a little closer. Do you remember when one of those phrases used to encapsulate young Black girls at their top tier?
Walking down memory lane leaves my soles painted with pink, purple, and blue. I first learned of my kaleidoscopic soul by following their footprints. I first tasted the comfort of luxuriousness on my tongue by singing their fashion-filled lyrics. No star was out of reach when they would announce shows coming to my state. Beauty was not an optical illusion—muses were Black girls my age—nothing mythological. Baby-doll garmented us with appropriate attraction. Keep reading to reminisce with me.
As a Black, young adult female, I live through many challenges daily. Most of my trials are behavior, conduct and mood-related. Branches of this can be related to my height, weight, and the overall perception that Black girls have no innocence, don’t experience bad days, can’t experience psychiatric disorders, and everything we do is accomplished with attitude. It feels that there is never an exception or an excuse available for me. I also have trouble with my hearing. I’m personally not yelling or trying to ignite conflict. I sometimes sincerely do not hear something that was said, or can’t comprehend it all the way, so I question to get clarity or explain it, not to provoke defiance.
Self-expression (the way that it is promoted) has always been challenging for me. Even as an author, some things are just hard to make pretty. Some feelings or situations are unexplainable. And the older I get, I have found its definition in its simplest form. Self-expression does not have to be artistic, beautified, or a plaster of our identity. Self-expression is not a blueprint, but a space for messiness and grace. It is also a space for story-sharing and refining yourself.
Every eye is not diamond trained. So even after you share your story, some people are still going to treat you like a grain of sand. This adds to the pit of worthlessness that I experience. Why have a story and no listeners, you know? It’s hard owning up to and being open about my emotional impediments. It’s disheartening that I’ll probably never be given the same understanding and grace that a physically ill person receives.
Bossy. “Thinking I’m scaring somebody”. “Always in the wrong”. Aggressive. Big. Attitudy. Trouble-maker. Instigator. Challenging. Disrespectful.
I have to be presentable at all times. Even if my insides are falling apart, my skin cannot collect ash from burnout. Poise is painful, and is often a personal poison more than perceived grace. I have never been “calm” or chiseled, and have always stood out like a masterpiece amongst amateur paintings. People have always treated me like a new exhibit, never taking a step back to walk around my being to determine my position and where I’m coming from. It’s like “I only see your red out of a bunch of pinks, so you must be wrong.” That has made it hard to fit in, hard to belong, and hard to know where I can really be myself—disorder, composure, mistakes, achievements, strengths, and all. This has led to experiencing a lot of injustices in my lifetime—all because of the relation to a perception and a skin color. Why is fear associated with standing up for yourself?
Black girls deserve de-escalation. We deserve the time and opportunity to calm down. We deserve to have our side of things inquired of and investigated. Our bodies are worth justice, no matter how boisterous we may be perceived.
I really get tired of having to prove my innocence and age—and that, at any age, I can still be innocent.
I get so tired of older Black men and women demanding “respect” for opinions, contrary views, and personalities that disagree with theirs. Like, because I’m 23 and you’re 53, I can’t disagree with you?
I can only use the knowledge I have at the moment. I do not know everything—but in this moment or whatever space I am in, I know to stand tall, stand big, and stand heard. I back down from no challenges because a perceived threat will be dealt with by a warning first and a siege second. My mother has always told me to defend myself, especially when no one cares to come to my rescue. I’ve never been the waiting type of princess. I’m the one with castle dreams, feeding and guarding the beast from the window of my heart—fiery words come in handy. And out of all of my weapons, I desire to destroy paper, for I am the scribe of my life. On a scale of feminine to masculine, I am farther away from the femininity that society places on us.
Jewels don’t have to come from rugged things, but durability comes from tests.
There was a time in my life when my body was a tapestry—thick and hand-woven with a personality crafted by God. But growing up, suddenly, my prayer to God was, “Can You please make me invisible?” Starving myself in hopes of less weight meaning less seen. Bullying had that effect on me.
Stay seated, don’t look so tall. Don’t wear too bright clothes, don’t eat too much, wear name-brand shoes, have bone-straight hair, and maybe you’ll blend in. Maybe they won’t see you.
“Holy Spirit, be a fabric softener—these wash cycles don’t take it easy on me, but will You, please?”
As I continue to fight for myself, I am dedicated to the miss-conduct of our Black girls—the dismantling of adultification, preservation of psychiatric health (diagnosis, prognosis, and affordable treatment), and maintaining the balance of femininity and grit. Being a young woman and unfraid to take girls under my wing. Helping girls find their way to relax, self-soothe, and have a creative outlet.
We all have hues that don’t fit on someone else’s color palette.
I dream of the day when a Black girl or woman can freely and safely express herself and not be met with antagony, criminality, harm, and injury. When female Black bodies are treated with respect simply because they exist. A day when Black femininity and exceptions are not a commodification or coin meter token. When our words are our bond and value. The day when people feel comfortable asking us about our day and cheering us up if we appear gloomy.
A day when irritability, stress, impulse, worry, and restlessness are seen for exactly what they are—symptoms.
A day when our oppressors are quick to hear and slow to speak.
Get used to Black story-telling. If I’m going to “run my mouth”, I’ll record history while doing so.
I want to bring this moment full circle to a time when stage-big peculiarity, whimsical style, colorful temperaments, and girl empowerment were front and center. I vicariously live through my twelve-year-old self when I go on a binge spree of favorite childhood songs from the 2010s.
Gucci This, Gucci That. Lover Boy. Can’t Stop Loving You. So Official. Ridin’ Slow. Boy, It’s Over. Where The Boys At?
These songs were sung by the ONLY poppin’ girl group of our time, The OMG Girlz, aka, Officially Miss Guided. Miss Beauty- Bahja Rodriguez, Miss Star- Zonnique Pullins and Miss Babydoll- Breaunna Womack. I love that I still know all of their lyrics. Interacting with my younger self is a coping mechanism for me. At this age, other than surviving the school day, and not coming home with bumps and bruises, my only worries were having my homework done before 106 & Park at 6 pm.
You couldn’t tell me that I wasn’t Miss Beauty (Bahja Rodriguez), lol. In 2015, my rose-colored inspiration took the world by petal with her delicate voice and star-bright originality! Every girl had their room decorated like Bahja’s. I know I did! I had everything with zebra print! Even down to wanting the $200 sparkly mirror at Hobby Lobby that my mom wouldn’t get me, no matter how many times I asked. It’s like God made pink for her, from her.
A few years back, I had a conversation with Bahja about what she wanted supporters to get out of her music: through her music and being an influential person, that, overall, we should be ourselves. When everyone wants us to change for them, we have to find the truth within ourselves. Seeing how comfortable she is with herself inspires me daily.
Her continuous growth and hair color are how she got the rose attribute from me. I created a fan page (that I still run), dedicated to giving Bahja all of her flowers, plus love and appreciation in small singing clips and poetic form. She truly is like a rose, the way she keeps going and growing. There has never been a time in which she has not been popping, because she has always refused to never give up.
This is the message that I take from her.
I used to want to stand out so boldly, as they positively guided us to. Seeing Black girls my age so courageous and so vivid, let me know that I don’t have to abbreviate myself for anyone else’s processing system. I am worth the duration. I am worth having time spent on me. I am worth having my intricacies explored.
In the labyrinth of being a Black girl/woman, Thank you BET. Thank you Kontrol Girl Mag, Rolling Out, True Star JR., and the various media outlets who publicized Black girls and gave them a bold space in our reality, that has now become our greatest and most colorful memory.
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