by Latoya Peterson
This is what I have been waiting for.
And, of course, it does not disappoint.
You see when we talk about pretty , I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing, not to mention to cling to pretty even in CHALLENGING the concept ( I WILL REJECT ALL THINGS THAT I SEE AS PRETTY CAUSE EVERYTHING MEANS THE SAME TO EVERYONE) makes me nauseaus.
You see in my life as WOC , pretty has had fuck all to do with attractiveness, vibrancy, or sexuality , it has had everything with a validation.
A validation that includes protection, ownership, and often the use of these things to pit women agianst each other, sometimes by patriarchial interests, OFTEN by racist thematics, and sometimes love itself.
Personally, I am beautiful. It is strange to say because dear god it sounds conceited and I am trying my darndest not to post any pictures , but even in the glaringly Eurocentric run studies about symmetry and youthfulness and clearness of skin and bountifulness of hair ETc.ETC.
I am doing okay.
I am not however in any way European featured , not in the slightest not by a long shot. My look comes with the music of steel pans and African drums some sitars and strings with a light note of pipes . My walk is all drums all the time.
I am always black.
And I am not pretty .