Of Self-Love and -Loathing

It's 6:15 on a Friday evening. The sky is getting darker; the wind is getting cooler.

I'm cutting through City Hall to get to the side street where I parked my car, after meeting my friend for what was supposed to be "a drink." With this friend, I do things I previously deemed abhorrent. My throat is burning: I probably need a little more perfume.

My 22-inch weave is blowing in the breeze; my heels are click-clacking on the concrete.

Something is happening that hasn't really happened in the eight months I've been in this strange, new pLAce: Men are speaking. Brothers are smiling, looking me in the eyes, and saying, "Hello," and, "How are you?" One man at the bus stop said, "You look fantastic."

A punch-pink smile is creeping across my face. "This must be how it feels to be Maria," I'm thinking.

Maria is thin and light-skinned with long, straight hair. Always in heels, never without a face full of makeup. When she walks into the classroom, the boys all look up, eyes following her to her seat. When she exits, they look at each other and nod.

I am realizing, immediately, what a self-loathing thought I just had.

That a modicum of attention makes me assume I must be having a day where I look "pretty," because in my brown-skinned world, pretty has always been synonymous with light-skinned girls like Maria.

I'd like to tell you that I plan to head home, look in the mirror and tell myself, "You are fine just the way you are. When your hair is a short, natural afro. When your jeans are not so tight and your shoes flat, and thick, black eyeglasses are slipping down the bridge of your nose. Whether people acknowledge you or you are gliding down the street in your normal state of invisibility."

But that, like my current image, would be a lie.