I am expected to care. I am expected to cry. I
am expected to dwell. I am even expected to roll my eyes and neck at
warp speed. But what I am not expected to do is to defy any of what
anyone else’s expectations of a (Black) woman
have always been known to be. From an early age, my mother encouraged
my education on women’s suffrage. She never let me forget the fact that
there are times when even after enduring the struggles of just being a
woman, an extra layer of cruelty is added on
by the fact that I am a Black woman living in America. I was always, to
some extent aware of the pains that sometimes stand around the corners
of my histories. However, what my mother never could have prepared me
for was the fact that no matter what advancements
were made by women and/or women of color, the strife would remain as
prevalent as it always has. I have been thinking a lot lately about the possible reasons I am the way I am. That caused me to reflect on my past and all of its dimensions. I don't have a number of entries in mind for the Let Me Explain series of posts. But I do hope their words help, touch and, well, explain a great deal.
The Physical
For me, the struggle came pretty early in life. I'm talking third-grade-PE-class-early. I have
always been athletic to some degree and I knew that I was better at
sports than most of the girls in my class no matter their build.
There was one particular week that we were doing gymnastics and the
instructors broke out the balance beams. This excited
me because I knew that based on what my cousins and my brother had
always told me, I had excellent balance. I was ready to show off. I had a
friend named Abby (who just so happened to be a thin little White girl) who wore the same
shorts as I did that day for class. We both
thought it was both the coolest and the funniest thing that we had
chosen the same orange and white shorts and white t-shirt, but our conversation about it
stopped at that. We all lined up for our turn on the beams. We watched
some of the girls celebrate making it across and
others either laugh hysterically when they fell on the mat below or
nearly cry in frustration. Abby went immediately before me and I watched
as she gracefully took her turn. Her long, slender legs stretched and carefully helped plant her feet. She stumbled a bit on her third step,
regrouped, did a little dance, winked at me
and successfully made it across. One of our two teachers applauded her.
“Good job, Abby. Gooooood job”. He gave her a high five and she stood
off to the side. My turn came and my adrenaline was pumping. I got up on
the beam unassisted and began my journey
across. To me, it felt natural and like I had been doing it for years. I did not falter once.
Just for a few style points, I did a 360, shimmied a little and stuck my
tongue out at Abby. The rest of the girls in the class thought it was
cool and they began to cheer for me. As I
got down off the beam, the same teacher that congratulated Abby said,
“Good JOB, Chunk!” I stopped in my tracks and turned around from my
friends to see him smiling his cap-toothed smile and clapping. “Good
JOB”, he said again. All the girls in the class stopped
cheering and began whispering “Chunk? Who’s Chunk?” The more they
caught on that he meant me, the more a slight giggle spread amongst the
crowd. It felt as though someone had punched me in the chest. Tears
stung my eyes, but I would not give him the satisfaction
of seeing me cry. Instead, I stormed away with balled up fists and
violently kicked over chairs as I left the gym. On my way out, he said "Or maybe I should say Chocolate Chunk," and everyone laughed harder. For the rest of that
year, I had to deal with being referred to as “Chunk” by my PE teacher
and the students I didn’t frighten enough on the
way out of the gym that day. I carried a little of the shame through
the summer when I played sports with my cousins. I went outside a lot
less and would do everything in my power not to wear shorts.
In learning about my heritage, my
mom and aunts had always explained to me that Black women tend to pack a
bit more in the hip region than those of most other nationalities. This was what caused me to do such early research on the Hottentot Venus and to look at old photos of female family members. I
could look at the women before me and see that
I definitely got it honestly. At that age though, my mind didn’t tell me
that the teacher who happened to be White and had given me this cruel
nickname did so because he saw my shape as an anomaly. It was not
something that he was used to seeing in his culture
and because of that, it made him uncomfortable. At the time, I also
didn’t know that it was okay to be a teacher and be a total idiot nor
that someday, White girls would pay to have a booty like mine. The only
thing that rang in my ears was my classmates’
laughter and him calling me “Chunk” over and over. I figured if the
name stuck and everyone laughed, there had to be something wrong with
me. I have to be fair and say that all of my body image issues didn’t
start with the idiot PE teacher. There were times
that I looked at my cousins and friends who were much thinner, taller
and I felt, much prettier than I and felt like something had just gone
terribly wrong in the gene pool. There were times I wanted to hide in my
room until my whole family just forgot about
me because I felt like I was just that fat and ugly. Within the last
couple of years, I told my mom about this. As I look back, I know I should have reported this teacher and that he should have been fired immediately. But I can
remember that the reason I carried it with me for so long was the fact
that I didn’t want to re-live the pain of the
experience while I told anyone what had happened and how I felt.My struggle in my skin was far from over and though it began at the hands of a White man, I have to say it was made worse by my own people than any others. The Thick Revolution was not in effect by the time I hit middle school and high school and I can remember being called “that fat bitch” by more tall, thin Black girls than others. The only time they let up was when the Black boys and other ethnicities joined in and put jewels like “Thunder Thighs”, "Buttzilla", "Lard Ass", "Fatty Patty", “Bubble Butt” and “Hippy Hippo” in my crown. I had always been taught by my brother and my cousins that I should be strong. So, running home to Mommy was out of the question. Instead, I trained myself in sarcasm and pretended the pain wasn’t there. My relief came in the form of my first love and high school sweetheart, Bobby. He was tall, dark, handsome and had one of the kindest hearts of anyone I have ever known. He was a monster on the football field, but unless you crossed him (which few were ever brave enough to do), he was a big teddy bear otherwise. About three months into our relationship, we had a quite pivotal conversation. I was telling him how I was surprised that he wanted to be with me because he could have anyone he wanted and even proceeded to go down a list of the pretty ones I thought he should have liked instead. He reached out with those bear claws of his and grabbed my shoulders."You are beautiful," he said to me, "I really wish you could see the jealous looks other girls have when you walk in the room. I can definitely see the looks on the dudes faces when I walk in with you. They all wish they had you and I thank God that I do." Before that moment, I believed he was the only man who wanted me and the reason he wanted me was that he was intrigued that we were so alike in so many ways. I never thought that it was because I was beautiful or anything special. He was the first person besides my mother to say to me "There is nothing wrong with you" and really sound like they meant it. [He is married and a father now. So, I don't really know if I am overstepping bounds when I say this. But I will always love him for being the person he was to me. Our break-up happened due to a series of unfortunate events in my life, but I will always be grateful to him for the enhancements he helped make to my spirit during the time we were together.] I do still have my days. And I will admit that there is a good deal of the time that I do not feel beautiful. But I do hear what is said about those with similar features and I can't help giggling every time I hear people celebrate and covet "thickness" nowadays. Every time they say it, I high-five Lil' Chunk as she does her shimmy on that balance beam. One time for Team Thickness.
Stay Tuned For Part II................
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