… but leave my beautiful Black ass out of it.
Recently, I was reflecting about the past relationships I have had and like a runaway freight train, it hit me. Some of the men I have been romantically or sexually linked to hated themselves for being Black and they hated dark-skin Black women in tandem.
The revelation was not only astounding, but it was cathartic. It explained so much of their insidious bullshit and inability to see me as multilayered human being. I look back on the times they made me or my accomplishments feel small, to make themselves seem important. Yet, instead of being angry, I am actually sad for them. How awful it must be to be hate your own skin and to mistreat and/or dehumanize lovers because they share the same skin or lineage. How broken must you be to want to break others?
And in this late and quiet revelation I relinquished any excuses I ever made for their emotional ineptitude. I relinquished the notion that there was something wrong with me. I am riddled with flaws, but the treatment I have experienced at the hands of colorism merchants birthed and complicit in anti-Blackness and anti-darkskin was so undeserved.
In this age of viral social media, the Renaissance of hate and global white supremacy, and monetizing anti-Blackness, I am very glad I am well rooted in loving myself.
Black American women go through so much just to live and the older I get the more I love the fact I am fighting to be free. Free to enjoy my humanity. Free from all the -isms.