Body

When I was in preschool my mom showed me pictures of penises and sternly said "if anyone shows you their penis, run away and tell me immediately." When I was in the 4th grade, my mom would yell at me for not wearing a bra. When I was in middle school, men would come up to me often; at grocery stores, at church, at cookouts. Once at Burlington's Coat Factory, a man came up to me and told me how beautiful I was. He reminded me of a man my auntie would tell me to call uncle. Before I could thank him, my mom grabbed my hand and yelled "SHE'S THIRTEEN!" I remember this because it was the day I learned to be afraid of men.

When I was 14 years old, almost all the girls I knew had been raped. One girl would leave class once a week to talk to a therapist because the courts “made” her. One girl had already had an abortion. One girl would see her rapist at social gatherings. One day, I asked a classmate why she never told anyone who could help. “I told my mom,” she said. “She didn’t believe me.” I remember this because it was the day I learned that for well developed girls like us, rape could feel like a rite of passage. 

When I was in high school, I became so aware of my body that I knew exactly what I'd change. I wanted my coily hair straight, my stomach flatter and my skin lighter. While my male classmates rarely paid attention to me, men did. One evening, I was alone with a man and he massaged my hand. I froze, wondering if this was my turn to hold the invisible pain these girls carried. “I’m in high school.” I said. He didn’t let go. I remember this because it was the day I learned that the age of black bodies never mattered.