Goodman Grey
11-02-2020, 12:36 AM
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/i-used-to-be-ashamed-of-my-blackness_b_59304935e4b09e93d796484e
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that I used to hate my blackness.
Ahh, there it is, the honest truth: I hated myself for being black, and I hated blackness.
There was a time when I would look in the mirror and feel incredibly dejected. I was ugly, my big nose and round eyes were problematic, but the most troubling trait was my skin. I was ashamed of my black skin, and everything it represented, or at least what I thought that representation meant. I thought it was the color of ghetto, violence, ignorance, slavery, failure, laziness and weakness. Black people were weak, and lazy, and I hated that I was a part of this. The darkness of my skin made me a card-carrying member of the world’s problem children.
When all you ever see and all that is ever said are negative things about the people who look and sound like you, how could you ever be proud of that?
I wanted to be white. Whiteness was the only way to achieve equality, it was the only way to be seen through a lens that I thought was fair. I started off with little things. I tried to learn the mannerisms of Zach Morris from “Saved by the Bell.” He was the example of whiteness that I aimed to achieve. I looked for ways to make my hair straighter and softer, kept my distance from darker skinned people, stopped listening to rap music and tried to engulf myself in what I understood to be “white culture”.
I started putting bleach in the tub when I showered. I would scrub the rag against my skin with the hope that the blackness would magically fade away, but it wouldn’t.
I would look down on people who looked just like me. I was someone who would have defended racist Steve Bannon, called Mike Brown a “thug,” and even supported a Donald Trump presidency ― all in the name of being seen as “not like them.”
I was so disgusted with my blackness that I was willing to wash away everything I had ever known and loved, all for the sake of getting a seat at the table. I wanted to be the coveted negro in the room, the token black guy, to be tolerated or, if I was lucky enough, liked. I looked in the mirror and would become distressed, feeling my dark skin and big lips were deterring me from reaching my potential. I would fantasize about having blond hair and blue eyes, then marvel at how much better life would be.
When I think about how deeply I hated myself, it’s almost shocking. I spent years trying to erase an identity, just to get some kudos from racially ignorant “progressives.”
:lmao:lmao:lmao
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that I used to hate my blackness.
Ahh, there it is, the honest truth: I hated myself for being black, and I hated blackness.
There was a time when I would look in the mirror and feel incredibly dejected. I was ugly, my big nose and round eyes were problematic, but the most troubling trait was my skin. I was ashamed of my black skin, and everything it represented, or at least what I thought that representation meant. I thought it was the color of ghetto, violence, ignorance, slavery, failure, laziness and weakness. Black people were weak, and lazy, and I hated that I was a part of this. The darkness of my skin made me a card-carrying member of the world’s problem children.
When all you ever see and all that is ever said are negative things about the people who look and sound like you, how could you ever be proud of that?
I wanted to be white. Whiteness was the only way to achieve equality, it was the only way to be seen through a lens that I thought was fair. I started off with little things. I tried to learn the mannerisms of Zach Morris from “Saved by the Bell.” He was the example of whiteness that I aimed to achieve. I looked for ways to make my hair straighter and softer, kept my distance from darker skinned people, stopped listening to rap music and tried to engulf myself in what I understood to be “white culture”.
I started putting bleach in the tub when I showered. I would scrub the rag against my skin with the hope that the blackness would magically fade away, but it wouldn’t.
I would look down on people who looked just like me. I was someone who would have defended racist Steve Bannon, called Mike Brown a “thug,” and even supported a Donald Trump presidency ― all in the name of being seen as “not like them.”
I was so disgusted with my blackness that I was willing to wash away everything I had ever known and loved, all for the sake of getting a seat at the table. I wanted to be the coveted negro in the room, the token black guy, to be tolerated or, if I was lucky enough, liked. I looked in the mirror and would become distressed, feeling my dark skin and big lips were deterring me from reaching my potential. I would fantasize about having blond hair and blue eyes, then marvel at how much better life would be.
When I think about how deeply I hated myself, it’s almost shocking. I spent years trying to erase an identity, just to get some kudos from racially ignorant “progressives.”
:lmao:lmao:lmao