(The above was taken with my BB around 4:30pm today)A couple weeks ago worldstarhiphop.com posted a segment of The Tyra Show called “I hate my face”. Tyra spoke with 9-year-old girls and their mothers about body image and how it affects self-esteem. The prettiest little brown girl was center stage. What she said probably should have shocked me. Unfortunately it didn’t.
Tyra had the little girl circle what she hated about her face. The little girl drew around her nose and lips, but what she focused on was her skin saying that it was too dark. She said she preferred to play with white dolls because they were prettier than the black ones. She said a little black boy in her class told her she would be prettier if she was light skinned with lighter eyes like one of her classmates. It was apparent this little girl wished she were white. My eyes focused in on her mother. She sat there crying… feeling hopeless and telling Tyra as a mother she doesn’t know what to do. “I tell her everyday that she is beautiful. I never thought that my child would be going through what I went through all these years later.”
A day later I went to a friend’s house party where a young gentleman sat beside me. We had a brief conversation and then he said this:
Guy “You’re pretty. What nationality are you?”
Thrown off by the question I responded proudly “I’m black”
Guy “I see that… I mean where are you from?”
Me “America. That would make me African American.”
Guy (sounding disappointed) “Oh, well… I thought you were Dominican.”
With that he got up and walked away. Did that REALLY just happen? When did it become uncool to be an African American girl?
I’m sure by now everyone has seen the ABC segment on 42% of black women will never marry. I’m sure by now we’ve all read or have seen Steve Harvey on the talk show circuit in all his clown suit glory… shoving his “how to get a black man” book down our throats. I’m sure by now the media has worked its way in to the mind of the black woman telling you that all your men are in jail, not parenting, and are with the white woman.
Being from the #2 state of interracial marriages (Iowa, Minnesota is #1 according to an article I read in EBONY a few years ago) I’m used to seeing mixed couples. Since moving away I don’t see it as often. In Iowa most of my black male friends date white women, but in NY ALL of my black male friends date black women. All of these are good guys who are college educated with promising careers and many of whom attend church on regular bases. I have to give credit where it is due. It is important to know that there are good black men out there… who want to be in relationships with black women. Don’t believe the hype that there are not.
Last night I hopped a train to Jersey to attend the party of an old friend. The party was packed and pretty well mixed. I couldn’t help but notice the herds of white women going after the black men. They were on a mission! What quickly happened was most of the black men were entertaining the white girls…. leaving the black girls to entertain ourselves. Mission accomplished!
Even though I was slightly perturbed about the situation I swept it under the rug. After all, you can’t always be the most popular.
Around 4:30pm today I returned to NY and ran in Kmart. As I was passing the toy isle I stopped cold in my tracks. There in the Barbie section was a Blonde Barbie shelved right next to the Black Ken. I walked over and began looking at the dolls behind them to see if perhaps the two in front were placed side by side… by mistake? No. The Blonde Barbie and Black Ken were purposely placed next to each other. I quickly searched the section for Black Barbie. Perhaps she was shelved next to some fine Italian Ken. No. She wasn’t even on the shelf. I rang the buzzer for retail assistance.
Me “Excuse me… is the brown skinned Barbie doll sold out?” (that is the only acceptable reason as to why she was not on the shelf)
Associate “I don’t believe so. They must not make one in this surfing collection.”
Me “Why? Contrary to popular belief… black girls swim.”
Associate “Ummmmm”
By this time a young black mother and a Hispanic mother were in the isle with their little girls.
Me “All I’m saying is there is Blonde Barbie, Brunette Barbie, the one over here appears to be Spanish Barbie, and here we have Black Ken… but his counterpart seems to be missing. I understand you have nothing to do with this, but I just don’t see myself. Where is my doll?
By this time the two mothers are behind me cosigning.
Associate “See yourself?”
Me “I’m tired of being ignored and being made to feel that no one wants Black Barbie! Where is she? I want to buy her… in the surfing collection!”
At this point my frustration of the Black Ken being next to Blonde Barbie grew to the fact that he didn’t even have Black Barbie as an option. I had been taken out of the equation. I suddenly became my inner 9- year-old. The one who was teased for having big lips and a big butt. Who was told that she would never be on TV because there was only room for one dark skinned woman and Oprah had that on lock. Who sat in all white classrooms and felt like she wasn’t as pretty as her classmates. Then my 25-year-old-self kicked in and remembered what it was like to be ignored at that party last night. Whose seeing Kim Kardashian being praised for her backside when all my homegirls have bigger ones. Whose being fed all of these statistics that she’d have better luck if she dated outside of her race. The one who just saw a brown skinned girl tell Tyra “I hate my face”.
Me “I just want little black girls to see how beautiful Black Barbie is and have the option to play with her. And I just want Black Ken to stand proudly at her side. If I was walking down this isle with my kids… that is the image I would want them to see.”
That poor associate slowly walked away. Being blonde she would never know how I felt in that moment. She will never know what it’s like to be a 25-year-old black professional woman at the bottom of the food chain. Because she is a 25-year-old Kmart employee at the top of it.
At this point the black mother gave me a hug.
Mother “Do you have a little girl?”
Me “No, but I know what it’s like to be one.”
Mother “You will make an excellent mom one day”
Fighting back tears I gave her a wink and got back on the subway. I starting crying around 72nd street. By the time we’d reached 135th the tears were flowing hard, but not for sadness. I just want little girls everywhere not to judge themselves off the photo shopped images, that rude little boy in class, or by what they do or do not have.
I love being a black woman. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in this world.
My Style
My Swag
My Walk
My Talk
My Courage
My Strength
My Witt
My Pride
My Laugh
My Love
My Resourcefulness… this is all effortless.
I deserve to be on the shelf for everyone to see and despite what the media has you thinking is beautiful… I know there’s a black Ken doll for me.
Tyra had the little girl circle what she hated about her face. The little girl drew around her nose and lips, but what she focused on was her skin saying that it was too dark. She said she preferred to play with white dolls because they were prettier than the black ones. She said a little black boy in her class told her she would be prettier if she was light skinned with lighter eyes like one of her classmates. It was apparent this little girl wished she were white. My eyes focused in on her mother. She sat there crying… feeling hopeless and telling Tyra as a mother she doesn’t know what to do. “I tell her everyday that she is beautiful. I never thought that my child would be going through what I went through all these years later.”
A day later I went to a friend’s house party where a young gentleman sat beside me. We had a brief conversation and then he said this:
Guy “You’re pretty. What nationality are you?”
Thrown off by the question I responded proudly “I’m black”
Guy “I see that… I mean where are you from?”
Me “America. That would make me African American.”
Guy (sounding disappointed) “Oh, well… I thought you were Dominican.”
With that he got up and walked away. Did that REALLY just happen? When did it become uncool to be an African American girl?
I’m sure by now everyone has seen the ABC segment on 42% of black women will never marry. I’m sure by now we’ve all read or have seen Steve Harvey on the talk show circuit in all his clown suit glory… shoving his “how to get a black man” book down our throats. I’m sure by now the media has worked its way in to the mind of the black woman telling you that all your men are in jail, not parenting, and are with the white woman.
Being from the #2 state of interracial marriages (Iowa, Minnesota is #1 according to an article I read in EBONY a few years ago) I’m used to seeing mixed couples. Since moving away I don’t see it as often. In Iowa most of my black male friends date white women, but in NY ALL of my black male friends date black women. All of these are good guys who are college educated with promising careers and many of whom attend church on regular bases. I have to give credit where it is due. It is important to know that there are good black men out there… who want to be in relationships with black women. Don’t believe the hype that there are not.
Last night I hopped a train to Jersey to attend the party of an old friend. The party was packed and pretty well mixed. I couldn’t help but notice the herds of white women going after the black men. They were on a mission! What quickly happened was most of the black men were entertaining the white girls…. leaving the black girls to entertain ourselves. Mission accomplished!
Even though I was slightly perturbed about the situation I swept it under the rug. After all, you can’t always be the most popular.
Around 4:30pm today I returned to NY and ran in Kmart. As I was passing the toy isle I stopped cold in my tracks. There in the Barbie section was a Blonde Barbie shelved right next to the Black Ken. I walked over and began looking at the dolls behind them to see if perhaps the two in front were placed side by side… by mistake? No. The Blonde Barbie and Black Ken were purposely placed next to each other. I quickly searched the section for Black Barbie. Perhaps she was shelved next to some fine Italian Ken. No. She wasn’t even on the shelf. I rang the buzzer for retail assistance.
Me “Excuse me… is the brown skinned Barbie doll sold out?” (that is the only acceptable reason as to why she was not on the shelf)
Associate “I don’t believe so. They must not make one in this surfing collection.”
Me “Why? Contrary to popular belief… black girls swim.”
Associate “Ummmmm”
By this time a young black mother and a Hispanic mother were in the isle with their little girls.
Me “All I’m saying is there is Blonde Barbie, Brunette Barbie, the one over here appears to be Spanish Barbie, and here we have Black Ken… but his counterpart seems to be missing. I understand you have nothing to do with this, but I just don’t see myself. Where is my doll?
By this time the two mothers are behind me cosigning.
Associate “See yourself?”
Me “I’m tired of being ignored and being made to feel that no one wants Black Barbie! Where is she? I want to buy her… in the surfing collection!”
At this point my frustration of the Black Ken being next to Blonde Barbie grew to the fact that he didn’t even have Black Barbie as an option. I had been taken out of the equation. I suddenly became my inner 9- year-old. The one who was teased for having big lips and a big butt. Who was told that she would never be on TV because there was only room for one dark skinned woman and Oprah had that on lock. Who sat in all white classrooms and felt like she wasn’t as pretty as her classmates. Then my 25-year-old-self kicked in and remembered what it was like to be ignored at that party last night. Whose seeing Kim Kardashian being praised for her backside when all my homegirls have bigger ones. Whose being fed all of these statistics that she’d have better luck if she dated outside of her race. The one who just saw a brown skinned girl tell Tyra “I hate my face”.
Me “I just want little black girls to see how beautiful Black Barbie is and have the option to play with her. And I just want Black Ken to stand proudly at her side. If I was walking down this isle with my kids… that is the image I would want them to see.”
That poor associate slowly walked away. Being blonde she would never know how I felt in that moment. She will never know what it’s like to be a 25-year-old black professional woman at the bottom of the food chain. Because she is a 25-year-old Kmart employee at the top of it.
At this point the black mother gave me a hug.
Mother “Do you have a little girl?”
Me “No, but I know what it’s like to be one.”
Mother “You will make an excellent mom one day”
Fighting back tears I gave her a wink and got back on the subway. I starting crying around 72nd street. By the time we’d reached 135th the tears were flowing hard, but not for sadness. I just want little girls everywhere not to judge themselves off the photo shopped images, that rude little boy in class, or by what they do or do not have.
I love being a black woman. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in this world.
My Style
My Swag
My Walk
My Talk
My Courage
My Strength
My Witt
My Pride
My Laugh
My Love
My Resourcefulness… this is all effortless.
I deserve to be on the shelf for everyone to see and despite what the media has you thinking is beautiful… I know there’s a black Ken doll for me.
