Tales of a Black Woman's Microaggressions
by Taylor Carlington
Her petite frame was the color of rich caramel with freckles and moles sprinkled all over her body. She had a heart-shaped face with big eyes and a permanent smile that made her very approachable and, by many accounts, attractive. She was often told so. As she was growing up many would fawn over how pretty she was and her father even told her that her looks would help her go far in life. She was thankful, but she was never actually proud of her blackness. Growing up in a mostly white, upper-class town in Pennsylvania made her standout amongst her white friends and classmates. Many had accepted her as their friend but she still watched herself around them, never wanting them to remember how different they all were. If they went swimming she would leave before her hair returned to its natural texture, if they played outside she would often retreat to the shade so that her skin wouldn’t get too dark, and if they listened to music she would stray from genres that might stereotype her. She was always aware she was different, despite her vain attempts of colorblindness. Clarissa knew she should have taken more pride in how God made her but it was hard. Certain phrases would always bring her back to reality. “You’re not like other black people.” “You’re actually pretty cute. I haven’t seen too many light black girls like you.” They were compliments and even if they were backhanded ones, they were still signs of acceptance. She loved that they thought better of her, held her to higher standards, but it also hurt realizing that they still saw her blackness before they saw anything else in her. She prayed that maybe one day they would change and she could be honest with who she was but they had already boxed her in as the rare black commodity who was fairer-skinned and articulate. The boys she liked often said that she was “pretty for a black girl,” and she never corrected them. She thought she should feel lucky that boys would take interest in her even if it came at the cost of stereotyping and colorism. Most of the boys in her class were nice to her as a classmate when they were younger, but none of them ever liked her romantically the way she liked them. It wasn’t until late in middle school that Andrew, a tall and lanky blond with blue eyes showed interest in her. He laughed at her jokes and never made her feel out of place for her skin color. Every once in awhile, she would catch him watching her in class or at lunch. She had a strong feeling that he liked her and the prospect of a white boy finally liking her back was exciting and unnerving for Clarissa. One day, while at a classmate’s pool party, he swam over to where she was sitting at the edge of the pool. He playfully splashed her legs to get her attention. “Hey, do you want to go sit on the deck?” Andrew said. She nodded and followed him a few feet from the pool. She wondered if Andrew was going to say that he liked her, ask if they could hang out sometime, or even if he would give her her first kiss. She tried to hide her excited smile as she looked down at her shriveling toes while Andrew picked at his nails and said, “You know, I like you, you act like me, not like other ones. You act kinda white.” She was devastated. Clarissa knew what this meant. He liked her because of who she pretended to be around him. Her mother told her there was no such thing as “acting white” but she still 35
