Learning To Love Myself As A Black Woman
I was in seventh grade, a twelve-year-old pudgy, buck-toothed, frizzy-haired, acne-prone girl totally oblivious to my supposed physical flaws and shortcomings. I lived in my own sheltered bubble. I went to school, did homework when I got back home, and then played in the backyard with our neighbor’s kid. I went to the library with my mother a lot. Perhaps most informatively, though, I lacked exposure to most media. I watched TV only once a week and seldom watched movies (except for the occasional viewing of Dumbo). This fostered a sense of cluelessness about societal expectations of beauty.