I wrote a blog post, a personal reflection, if you will. I am a journalist, so by nature I am curious, always wanting to know other people’s stories and always wanting to tell a story. This time I chose to share an opinion based on life through my eyes, conversations with friends both male and female, my dealings with society, parenthood and all the things that contribute to who I am.
My intention was to share a narrative about the difficulties of raising a black man in a society where the standard of beauty is different from, and at times hostile toward, women who look like him. Women who look like me.
It was not meant to be an academic piece, nor would I consider it to be an “article”; it read like a diary entry, because in many ways it was.
Because I wrote it as a blog post, I was not seeking or expecting the attention I received, both good and bad. But the attention it received at times further illustrated my point.
Many comments I read from black men were some variation of the suggestion that I must be a dark-skinned black woman myself. Why?
I was not trying to change the world with what I wrote; I just sought to express myself and my very real frustration with the way that black women are regarded, not just in America but the world over.
As Malcolm X said, “The most disrespected person in America is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America is the black woman.”