By Michelle Ssengendo

I have always been a confused girl- a thinker. Thinking of the world around me, thinking about the concepts of psychology and man-made philosophies, thinking about myself and who I am truly. These mere elements of curiosity have driven me to discover the many redeeming traits of this world that make me want to keep moving, keep breathing- but it has made me open my eyes and look at the world not as a community, but a battlefield.

One of the most horrific discoveries apart of my mental endeavors was the realization of the negative connotations of my skin tone- Black. Criminal, stupid, ghetto, ratchet, up to no good. Those remarks and stereotypes have wounded me, have bruised my skin once evenly brown, now blemished black and blue. But, these truths were uncovered during my youth, not even a schoolgirl I was.

 At that time, my family ensured that I felt safe towards these stereotypes, that they’d never hurt me. My mother and father dealt with life at maximum difficulty, so I listened to them- listened to them well, attentively. They told me about the dangers that come with my color. Don’t put your hood up, that’s dangerous. Ignore when they taunt you, do not fight. Only push back if they push you. Amazing words of advice they were.  Though the wounds of the comments were left gushing with blood and stinging with pain they would heal to become scars- luckily enough they would just regenerate into tougher more impermeable skin to protect me. I protected and grew strong towards the expectations of my identity and the negative statements. I deflected them.

“You’re too black”

Deflected

“I am scared of you ”

Deflected

Everything… Deflected.

I felt strong, mighty. I had a strong connection to my family, my mom and dad- veterans of life, to lead me. I never knew of the other conflicts occurring outdoors, for only racism was the crack in my world. The moment I discovered a hybrid abomination, that of which combined two concepts- in which one I had no knowledge of, was the day my self identity shattered. All that protection and strength were just a mirage, the lessons given at the dinner table of racial injustice and being tolerant against it were not enough. For it was a complex phenomenon, so unique that I couldn’t speak about it- for it was a phenomenon where it tested me, and I failed, I was ignorant. I always saw myself as black– that was my identity. A girl- a woman, not so much. 

A black girl, not at all.

It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment where this realization of being a black girl held so much significance in my life. Though the flickering of memories like a silent film makes me believe that I was eight years old… so young and pure. I distinctly remember how eager I was to become a singer, my skills were outright abominable, but it was my vision at the time and I was persistent on it. I had an Ipad Mini, it was gold- it is now a vintage antique which lies in a drawer, retelling the stories of my childhood which had sculpted me into the person I am today. I used to spend hours on my Ipad Mini researching how to become a singer. I would search for things which my eight year old brain could not comprehend- music theory, music notes, figurative language, and everything in between. I was welcomed into the realm of social media really early on due to this curiosity and wonder for music- I saw unconventional, inappropriate things which I may not, cannot share. They scared me, but there was no relation between me and those uncomfortable sources- so I kept digging deeper. Not out of curiosity, but an unconscious action. I started watching media which intrigued me, but had no value- they were so stupid. Pranks that were harmless in nature, but harmful psychologically. Live chat videos where bullying was normalized. New “challenges” on the trendiest social media platform that inflicted pain on people. But they never affected me, they never hurt me- so why even care? That’s how I felt, that’s how I felt until it did affect- until it hurt me. But I had no one to run to as it never affected them. I would battle alone, like a warrior- Yaa Asantewaa.

Every black girl, every dark skin girl to be specific, knows of this trend that spread like a virus on social media- moreover on the black side of social media. The trend lingers in my mind, it still hurts… Darkskin vs. Lightskin. A civil war of a trend, the trend that infiltrated this internal conflict- the layout of this trend was pretty simple. It was done in a street interview format- go up, ask black men, “Dark Skin or Light Skin?”- implying if they’d fuck with a darkskinned black girl or a lightskinned black girl. My initial reaction to such a video was bewilderment- “black is black… is it that important?”… I guess it was. The answers were always “light skin” followed by stereotypical and offensive remarks, identical to those non-black individuals gave to me. 

“They are too dark”

…

“They are too intimidating”

…

I could not deflect that

They were my own men

My brothers

I developed an addiction to that type of content- it was everywhere, and I craved it. I felt a need for that content as if it were validation I starved of.. “Please say dark skin”, I waited, lingering over countless videos repeating the same message, as if one more voice would finally affirm me, embrace me. “Dark skin or Light skin?”, echoing in my ears back and forth like a relentless alarm. 

Due to this addiction my curiosity peaked, identical to the curiosity within me when I was much younger. And I was plagued by a question, one that seemed universal yet intensely personal, threaded through different lenses, always the same unyielding root: Where do I belong? 

I knew of the brutality outdoors, aware that the white-skinned majority’s self-indulgence would always exclude me. The children absorbed the venom of their parent’s biases, spewing it carelessly. The boys, white boys, aimed it at me without hesitation. The girls- white girls- were beyond reach. Could I ever stand on their level? Would they ever grasp onto the broader mentality to understand? I knew I was an outsider.

Even my own brothers reinforced this. Seeing them so entrenched in stereotypes, so casually cruel, as if molded by white norms- it hit me hard, I couldn’t get up. And while it wasn’t quite the same in their world, they still drew affirmations from the sisters. Was there a line separating the brothers and sisters? The boys and girls, which no one warned me about? Was there a struggle unique to me as a black girl? A unique struggle implicitly as a dark skinned girl? I didn’t know, I was not prepared for that. The pressures weighed heavily on me, tightening until my body fractured. The outer layers of discrimination pressed in from all sides, the interstitial tension against the dark-skinned girl. The insecurities began to surface, unbinding, breaking loose.

I began to see my own skin as a fault, as if it was strained, not with beauty but with shame. The remarks from school actually dug deep into my skin. I started to shed the advice my parents gave, words meant to guide me but now tasting with bitterness, irrelevant. The need, the yearning for anti-black girl content became more severe, almost turned primal, transforming into a need rooted deeper than validation. 

My mind expanded with new terminology, my body stinging at it. 

Colorism-the bias against darker skin tones, inherent value to the lighter folk. Texturism– the belief that hair mustn’t be too coarse, 4C hair is a curse. Featurism– the privileging of European features above those shaped by the motherland, a quiet but constant disdain for Afrocentricity. Looking at these ideals, these faces, and then at my own reflection- I realized, as if seeing it for the first time, that the world had marked me as inferior. My dark skin, coiled hair, big lips and prominent nose- I resented it all. I saw myself, and I felt disdain.  Comparison became my thief of joy- I went to school and studied the features of the white girls, how they were admired simply for existing- no effort, no reaching, no trying to prove a thing. I wanted that ease. I wanted that praise . I’d go home, scroll through my feed, watch praise poured over lighter skinned girls. I didn’t want to be seen as a black girl, didn’t want the burdens that came with it- I wanted to be lighter, even if it meant losing myself… I wanted to be white.

This longing soon manifested into my reality. I stripped my hair of braids and natural styles, replacing them with what others saw as “beautiful”, straight, smooth hair.  Each night, I prayed to some distant power from above to wake up transformed, to find my dark chocolate skin replaced with a lighter shade, a “beautiful” one. I wanted contrast. I wanted brightness. My skin became the central point of my shame, an unyielding source of my insecurity.

I remember one day, vividly- one memory among many, but it captures the weight of this insecurity. I was eight, and I had to clean the bathroom. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. I filled the tub with water and scrubbed until the brown grime dissolved, until the mess faded away, and the tub shone white, pristine. I had an idea when seeing this.

I had heard whispers, distant voices within the community, of skin bleaching- it was the embodiment of self-resentment, yet a common practice in the motherland. I wanted nothing to do with skin bleaching- it felt like a crime against myself and my sisters. But at the same time, I was drawn to it, seduced by the promise of transformation.

I held the spray bottle up to my face, “bleach”, it read.

I did the unthinkable, I sprayed the bleach on my ankle, imagining that maybe, maybe it would clear away the brown in me too. That night, I lay in bed, nerves tight and hope gnawing at me, awaiting some kind of drastic transformation.

No change came. Only sadness, only the ache of what I could not become.

Those months of insecurity and feeling unprotected stretched into years. By 2020, I was ten years old. The older I got, the deeper the insecurity rooted itself in me. At school, everyone was dating, it was the new norm-  and I had no one. I knew why. It was because of my skin. I had always known that, but knowing didn’t make it any easier to accept, and it didn’t deflect the ache of loneliness. I wanted love too. Everyone wants it.

 I kept consuming the same content, the same images of beauty that felt like daggers every time I looked. And the more I looked, the clearer the gap became- the privilege of a white girl compared to a black girl. I was so envious.

Then, as if the universe decided to strike me twice, two events collided in my life- one against the world, and one against my family. Coronavirus. And the death of a loved one.

 I remember the cries that filled that year, the mourning that hung heavy around me. But I also remember something else.

A kind of hope. 

I felt joyous. Joyous that I wouldn’t have to see those people anymore- the ones who fed my insecurity, who made me feel less than. Joyous that I’d be spending time with my family, the only place where I felt a glimmer of belonging. Joyous that I was going home. 

Uganda- my true home. Returning there felt like stepping into a different world, one that existed beyond the insecurities and judgements I had known. My family always retreated back every summer break, just to recline, relax- to take a break from the cold and merciless abyss of Canada. But this time it wasn’t a visit. I was there to mourn. The death of my loved one had called me back, long before the world was sealed off by the pandemic. I had left with the intention of returning quickly, yet as borders closed and the days stretched into weeks, I found myself in Uganda far longer than I had planned.

At first, the forced stillness unnerved me. The endless days offered nothing to distract from my grief, and my own thoughts became an unrelenting mirror. I stay confined in my room, the days brushing past making it feel more like a prison- confined and alone in my thoughts. All the insecurities I’d carried- about my skin, my hair, my place in the world, everything- they bubbled up like wounds needing air. And without the pressures of school and the constant comparisons, it became clearer just how much I had been letting that bitterness eat away at me, one gnawing thought at a time. 

Somewhere in the quiet, my thoughts now having more space to extend- a new intention started forming. I cannot be trapped within this abusive mentality. I didn’t want to be swallowed whole by envy, defined by my insecurities. I wanted to look at myself- truly see myself- and not wince. So while the world outside paused, stuck in a state of uncertainty. I set an objective, a goal: I would use the time to attempt to revitalize myself from the inside. I missed the young black girl, so prideful about her color and where she came from- not thinking about her dark chocolate skin. I wanted that back. I wanted to strip away the envy, the bitterness, the layers of self-doubt that had enveloped me, had made me feel like a stranger in my own skin. I wanted now to accept that I am a black girl, that I am unique and my darkness is not a curse- no, it’s a sign of beauty. I wanted to be that mentally strong black girl. I wanted to say yes- yes, I am as gifted as Lupita Nyong’o, as captivating as Anok Yai, as soulful as Nina Simone, as unbreakable as Assata Shakur. I am all of them, I am more than them. And I am proud. 

To awaken and truly manifest this self-revitalization project I had to step out and experience life. Staying in my room, in my house- doing nothing but procrastinating, was going to diverge me far away from my goal. My house in Uganda was an expansive abode, one with a warmer, more stable feel to it than the one in Canada. Though I had to learn, I had to learn that staying encased in my own world, far from the public, fed the monster of self-doubt and envy. I made it clear that I did not want to feed it any longer. 

I began to connect with the beauty around me. Uganda has always been a land of vivid colors and strong roots. I spent hours outdoors, letting the rich red earth stain my hands, watching the endless stretch of green fields, feeling the heavy warmth of sun on my skin- creating a darker complexion, which I finally loved. The sun draped me in a shade I had once tried to erase, and for the first time, I felt at home in my own skin. I wanted to be lighter, even white. But now, with each day in Uganda, I wanted nothing but this deeper, truer color. Bathing in the warmth of the sun, I’d visit cultural sites with my family- I would attentively listen to the words drowned with history. How this history has affected my home. I felt the interconnectedness when I was outside, interacting with all my brothers and sisters– their way of speaking in tongues which were foreign to me did not stop me from understanding them. From empathizing with them. I saw the girls, all black and beautiful, their dark skin glistening in the orange sun- I was just like them, black and beautiful. I just realized that.

My time in Uganda wasn’t a sudden transformation. I didn’t return with all my insecurities magically erased. But I came with a different understanding of myself and a promise to honor that understanding. I came knowing of the troubles that plagued the black girl, but how strength and tenacity can combat it. Staying weak and degrading yourself, will allow for it to swallow you whole, mercilessly. I came back knowing that I was enough as I was, that my skin and my identity held beauty that didn’t need validation from anyone else. 

The pandemic had locked me in Uganda longer than I’d planned, but it had also unlocked something within me- a quiet confidence that felt more like home than any place ever had.  

Now, in 2024, at the age of 15. I find myself often reflecting on that transformative event, Pondering on how different my physical and mental state would have been if it had never occurred. Without that pivotal and revolutionary moment,  I would have never delved deeper into my passion for writing. Remaining trapped in that never-ending cycle of insecurity would have robbed me of my sense of creativity and self-expression that entirely defines me today. It would have held me back from embracing the profound idea of Pan-Africanism– the pride of the African continent, and the relentless pursuit of excellence that has become the foundation of who I am.

This continuous journey has awakened in me an unyielding appreciation for the resilience and brilliance of my ancestors, my sisters– the great icons and examples of black resistance and empowerment: Kathleen Cleaver,  Angela Davis, Harriet Tubman, and many more. Their legacies fuel my ambition and remind me that strength is not just born from misfortune but brought up from the courage to persevere. 

I am still that confused girl- a thinker. Still thinking of the world around me, thinking about the concepts of psychology and man-made philosophies- though more insightful of myself and who I am truly. Through the challenges and mis-haps that have cornered me I stand strong and recognize who I am. 

I am a black girl.

Michelle Ssengendo is an aspiring author, who resides in the urban province of Alberta in the country of Canada. As a black girl, maneuvering through the obstacles of living in a white dominant area, she confides in the wonders of literature as her elixir of escape.