You’re Pretty for a Black Girl

By: Ashley Hughes

I recall being a young girl and feeling like I was different. Out of place, even. I remember wishing to be like them, yearning for their acceptance. I wanted to be good enough; I needed to. I grew up in a small town in upstate New York. The population is only some 14,000, and those people are mostly white. They were my My peers, my teachers, my neighbors, and my doctors. There was little representation for a little Black girl like me so I began to denounce it. I adopted my blackness as the enemy.

My family and I moved when I was in the middle of fourth grade. I had to transfer to a different elementary school. My previous school had been more Diverse. This new school, however, had about maybe two or three Black students in every class. I was pretty funny, so I made friends fast.

I was one of two Black girls in my little “clique.” My best friend was an uppity Polish-American girl who aspired to be Paris Hilton. She was very popular and and would tell me that I was pretty for a Black girl. I believed her.

My parents were always financially well off. I went to the hair salon every two weeks for a wash and set, and every six weeks for a relaxer. My hair was past my shoulders. It was long, straight, and beautiful in the eyes my white friends . They’d say “For a Black girl, you have really nice hair. It isn’t gross and knotty like Abby’s.”

Of course it wasn’t. Because I wasn’t Abby. I was better than Abby, I had good hair. I had the type of hair that granted me a ticket into the “Cool Kids” club. I had the kind of hair that was adequate.

Reading was always one of my favorite hobbies. I read hundreds of books as a child. I even wrote some of my own. I loved the idea of words, and creating. I loved expanding my vocabulary and liked to impress people with my advanced vernacular.

I used a lot of big words, and pronounced my words clearly. I understood that this was a “white people” thing; surely, Black people are too dumb to speak eloquently. My way of speaking got me in good with the white girls. “There are Black girls, and then there are niggers,” they’d tell me. “They talk like they’re stupid. But then there are Black girls like you, Ash. You’re not ignorant like them.”

I felt validated by their welcoming. They were right; I wasn’t some dumb, ghetto Black girl. I was a respectable Black girl. I was the sort of Black girl who had “white” interests; you know, Black people can’t read. I was a “white girl in a Black girl’s body.” I was the kind of Black girl who wanted to wash the “dirt” off my skin with fairy soap.

My fourth grade best friend and I would listen to techno music all the time. Not only did I enjoy the music, but I enjoyed the attention I got because I listened to it. My white friends called me an “oreo”, an “undercover white girl.” Techno is a “white” genre; so why would I be listening to it if I was really a typical Black girl? Black people are way too one dimensional to listen to anything but hip-hop.

I aspired to whiteness. Being white meant being good. Blindly, I felt good about “fitting in.” I felt good about hating myself. White supremacy tells us that our features are subhuman, that how we look is unacceptable. We assimilate to survive. On any level, succumbing to Eurocentric principles of beauty and behavior is inevitable.

We have to look “professional” at work; but how can we when our natural hair is deemed unsuitable for the work environment? How do we live when our very existence is invalidated? How do we stay sane when who we are is not sufficient enough?

When my parents divorced, my mother began her unlearning process. She told me that she never felt as if her soul was satisfied. She researched and experienced and talked to so many people who taught her about Blackness, and how valuable it really is. She learned about our ancestors, and how Black people contributed to the world. She became exposed to the lies that we have been spoon fed by white racist domination.

From my mother, I learned more about myself. As I moved into middle school and high school, I was being taught more about what it meant to be Black. How beautiful it is. How much I should embrace it. How powerful we are. I learned that I was a child of the Sun. But of course, I still struggled. I have been taught that “white is right” my entire life, unlearning it was not going to be an easy feat.

I cut off my relaxed hair in 2012. It was about five months after I had graduated from high school. My mom and I moved out to Philadelphia, a city thatis engulfed by Black culture. I was exposed to something completely different. Something that made me feel truly accepted. There were no barriers between me and them. I was surrounded by people that looked like me, some talked like me, and some didn’t. Regardless, I felt something in Philly that I’d never truly felt with my white friends: equality.

Cutting off my hair was extremely liberating. I never knew my natural hair. I liked getting relaxers as I felt my hair would be too unmanageable if I weren’t to get them. But most importantly, my straight hair was the key to my illusion of white validation. I was breaking free from that. I was ready to accept my Blackness; or at least try.

The journey has been long and hard. It is an ongoing process. Someday, I hope to be a totally carefree Black girl. Someday, maybe I won’t secretly wish I had 3c curls. Someday, I won’t quietly desire lighter eyes. But I do know one thing for sure: I am not pretty for a Black girl. I am pretty because I am a Black girl.