The Freedom to Be a Black Girl7/06/2015
by Thahabu Gordon for Rookie When I was 13 years old, the most striking aspects of my appearance were a blue weave, thick eyeliner, and a...
by Thahabu Gordon for Rookie
When I was 13 years old, the most striking aspects of my appearance were a blue weave, thick eyeliner, and a wardrobe full of dark band T-shirts. My peers had conflicting ideas about me: I didn’t fit the image of how they thought a black girl was supposed to look and act. My white friends often reminded me that I was “above” most black kids because I spoke “proper” English, but they were quick to exclaim how ghetto I was whenever I raised my voice or expressed my opinion on a heavy topic. My black counterparts let me know that having colorful hair made me ratchet, because “only white girls can get away with that,” and felt I should’ve been listening to Lil Wayne instead of All Time Low. The only thing both my black and white classmates could agree on was that I’d always be ratchet, which meant I’d never be worthy of their full respect.
Because I listened to alternative music, people tended to pit me up against “urban” black girls, who enjoyed rap music and spoke AAVE more than I did, as though I deserved more respect for being interested in things that aligned with white people. My aunts and cousins had always advised me not to be like “those girls in the hip-hop videos;” I was supposed to be “classy.” They were enforcing a specific type of respectability politics: the idea that if black girls “behave,” we won’t be set back by white supremacy and patriarchy. As long as I was “respectable,” I was better than more urban girls. By seventh grade, I had internalized those concepts and avoided hanging around black girls who exclusively listened to rap and weren’t afraid of enthusiastically expressing their opinions. I was conditioned to think I was better than them. You would never have caught me in a tight dress or short bottoms because I was trying to distance myself from being volatile and hypersexual—aka, “that black girl.”
What I didn’t know back then: The intersections of racism and sexism, known as misogynoir, make it impossible for black girls to appeal to the standards white supremacy has set for us, no matter how we dress or act. As well as disallowing me from choosing my own identity and tastes, this kind of bigotry put me in bodily danger. My sexuality has been joked about since I was in elementary school, and at 19, I’ve noticed that as I get older, unwanted commentary on my body becomes more aggressive, and men often follow and threaten me if I don’t respond to their catcalls.
It wasn’t until I started paying attention to the way my white friends spoke about street harassment that I realized what they went through was totally different than what I experienced. When they complained about being catcalled, some of them bragged about telling guys to “fuck off.” What happened to them is terrible, but it made me realize that the street harassment that I and other black girls experience is a lot more aggressive. Being considered a well-spoken, “alternative” black girl didn’t stop boys from telling me, “Black girls are good at sucking dick, cuz they got them DSLs,” meaning “dick-sucking lips.” Street harassers, particularly black men who have internalized white oppression in a way that causes them to devalue black girls in turn, think because I am a black girl, I should be grateful that any man is giving me attention, and they take it as an insult whenever I reject them. This is an obvious form of misogynoir, as I discovered through @feministajones’s hashtag #YouOKSis, a thread where black women discuss their experiences with street harassment. Before I found that hashtag, I thought it was completely normal for men to curse me out or grab me when I didn’t reply to their advances. I quickly learned to smile and respond back when they said hi so I wouldn’t be yelled at or shoved.
One of my worst experiences with street harassment took place when I was 16. I was on my way to the beauty supply store when two boys came up to me and asked me to perform fellatio on them in the nearby park. I was deeply offended and told them no. They continued to follow me for 10 minutes, asking me why I wouldn’t, and how I looked like I’d be great at it. Every time I tried to walk faster, they sped up, too. I was scared and uncomfortable, and it wasn’t until I saw a coworker sitting on her porch that I found safety. I screamed her name and ran towards her. As I approached her, they yelled, “God gave you those big, beautiful lips to suck a big, beautiful dick!” Heat surged through my body; their words stung like acid in an open wound. At that moment, I understood that wearing revealing clothes wasn’t relevant to how men treated me on the street—I was wearing a peacoat over a sweater and jeans that day.
Black girls are some of the least protected people in this country. We don’t come close to being as viewed as worthy of defending as white women do, so it’s easy to harass us without consequence. Being hypersexualized is part of the “angry black woman” trope, thanks to which black girls are perceived as overbearing, sassy caricatures. Many people who are neither black nor female love to brag about how they have a strong, independent black women living inside of them—but of course they don’t, because they’ve never had to slap on a smile in the face of racism andsexism, or been demonized for complaining about pain when someone hurts them the way black girls are forced to. They have never had to show the kind of strength and independence we have to exude every day.
Continue reading at Rookie.