Tales of a Black Woman's Microaggressions

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 understood. Andrew was shocked that as a black girl, she wasn’t a walking stereotype. Because of this, she was still a rare commodity to her white peers. She thought the answers to her prayers of love and acceptance to God would be answered but He only met her with more rejection.

She didn’t know what to say so she murmured a simple, “Thanks.”

Clarissa’s petite frame had been toned from years of field hockey and cross country and the boys in her classes always seemed to take notice. While her charm and kindness always won over her teachers and classmates, many of the males mistook her kindness for flirting. While she became fast friends with many of the boys in school, behind her back many of her female peers made rude comments. “She arches her back so that her butt and boobs stick out.” “Why does she walk with her butt out like that?” “Sorry, but she’s a hoe.” The sexualization of her body started when she was much younger. It went beyond loved ones and strangers simply saying that she was pretty and would quickly cross into predatory comments. “You’re gonna have a nice little figure on you.” “Girl, if only you were a few years older!” Women of color had been sexualized since the beginning of time, and so much so that many had just gotten used to it. Though men were the ones who were lusting after flesh, she was still young and seen as a child to many. Much like Sarah Baartman in the 1800s, who was exhibited as a sexual sideshow attraction and experiment, she was something to be leered at because of her black features. This was a trend that never ended and Clarissa could feel it in the way she was looked at.

With Clarissa, the white boys in particular at her school choose to treat her as a sexualized object more than a person. She always had faith that by being a “good Christian girl” who was never promiscuous she would be fine, but her actions were not the ones that needed condemning. Her promiscuousness was painted on with her skin color and that stripped away her humanity in the eyes of many.

“Touch the black girl’s butt”; it was a game for them, whoever touched it the most was the winner and she was the pawn.

“It could have been anyone, but it was me just because I was there. I was the curvy black girl,” she tried to convince herself.

She sat there in her tenth grade chemistry class, unable to focus on the lesson on the periodic table. She wondered how long it would last, and when it would stop. Within the hour and a half they had been in class learning about elements and mixing chemicals, her butt had been pinched, grabbed, and hit more than it had ever been in her entire sixteen years living.

“They were just horny, teenaged boys looking for any excuse to touch a girl and avoid class,” she thought.

She was unsure how many times her butt was touched, slapped, or groped, but every time it happened she could tell who did it. Austin was softer, he would never pinch or grab, Graham started off with taps and gradually moved onto slaps, and Gaines would pinch. She stopped turning around because she instantly knew once they made contact.

She later realized that they would never try that with the white girls in the class. Many of them had grown up together, their families were neighbors, friends, and even business partners. Their pure ivory skin and soft straight hair had made them too pristine to touch in such a disrespectful way. They might have been crude to them in other ways but never sexually violating like they had been to her.

As a black girl, she was a sexual object to them, fun to play with but too beneath them to even befriend; nothing more than a big butt and boobs.

By Taylor Carlington