Here I am, a young black woman growing up in the United States today. What does that mean exactly? Well let me begin like this: In this world, each and every person is sorted into a group, and each group has its place on a figurative totem pole made up by the “leaders” of this society. African American women, to be frank, are at the bottom of the bottom. A black woman is expected to be smutty with her words and promiscuous with her actions. She has a caricature that suggests she’s nothing more than a loud-mouthed, small-minded woman that has nothing to offer besides her “sass” and “aggression.” It seems as if no one cares too much about our black women, or our black men, until it’s too late.

When a black woman beats the odds and disconnects herself from her stereotype, ignorant people come out and state that she “isn’t acting the way she’s supposed to” and “is trying to be someone she isn’t.” The main issue is that a black woman is expected to fulfill everyone else’s ideal roles of how she is supposed to be, that she fails to figure out who she really is for herself. She finds herself lost and alone in a world that does not appreciate her.

A feeling I know all too well.

Back in middle school, I would always have my mom do my hair for school, and in that time, my mom would perm it. Oh gosh, the painful memories of the perm burning my scalp just started to come back. My mom would always ask “how come you never want to get braids?” I would just shrug my shoulders. “I know,” she would say, “it’s because you’re ashamed and scared of people seeing you as black”. I would always deny that, because that’s a ridiculous way of thinking. But deep down, in a way, I knew she was right.

All the girls that had braids and cornrows in middle school were laughed at and thought of as “ghetto” and I certainly did not want that same image. My mom had put braids in my hair, put it into a bun, and sent me off to school. I walked in those hallways that day fearful of someone pointing me out and laughing at me. Sure enough, I heard a “hey Tyreesha” from behind, and I turn around to find someone staring at the hair on my head. The name Tyreesha is a beautiful name, but it was not mine, so why was I referred to as that?

High school was a whole different ball game. Those were (I hope) not the best four years of my life, but high school was a huge learning experience.

My sophomore year of high school was a rough time. I started to not feel good about myself, for I didn’t believe I was as smart as the other kids around me. One day, a friend came up me and told me she had a conversation with another one of my supposedly good friends, who said that she “wasn’t surprised that I didn’t perform as well on my tests.”

You’re kidding right?

It was bad enough I had already felt I wasn’t smart enough, but for it to come out of someone else’s mouth, especially from one I thought really cared about me, it hurt. It confirmed for me that I was just another dumb female that didn’t belong.

I was in chemistry class that same year and my lab group was doing our lab report. One of my lab members asked if he could copy my paper, and the other group member said “unless you wanna fail, I wouldn’t suggest doing copying off her.” The one who would always copy off of everyone else decided to say something like that about me? The one who would ask me questions because he didn’t know everything himself? Well, I’ll just sit back and sip my tea, I suppose.

Due to my negligence towards my “black woman” stereotype, I am considered “the white girl.” The number of times that I have heard “you’re the prettiest black girl I know” is way too high. I remember someone was singing a Destiny’s Child song in class and that person asked me to sing along. I said I didn’t know all the words, and they said “wow I’m blacker than you!” I guarantee you that boy didn’t even know who Destiny’s Child was until about three months prior. Why is it that the one Destiny’s Child song you know and I don’t know determine how “black” I am? My family says one thing, but those around me say another. Why must I be considered “white” if I do not fit the image of the stereotypical black woman?

Junior year was a year where things started to turn around and I began to build myself. I decided that summer that I was going to get those box braids, and I did. I was surprised to come to school that first day and get so many compliments. So, I stuck with it. My black girl pride had started to run through me that year. Senior year I even decided to go all out and wear my natural hair. To my surprise, I got even more compliments from that. Being a black girl never felt better.

Now I know I wanted to talk to and relate with my black sisters, but what about my black boys and men? I don’t have much first hand experience with being a black man, but I do have a 15 year old brother.

My brother was involved in a theater program last summer, which took place in Teaneck, NJ. Teaneck was far, and with both parents working, it was impossible to drive him back and forth to Teaneck 3-4 nights a week. So, my brother would take the bus to Port Authority Bus Terminal, in which he would take another bus to Teaneck. My mom worked in Manhattan, so there were times where he would wait for my mother at the bus terminal so they could take the bus back to Teaneck together and my mom would be able to watch my brother rehearse some nights.

One day, my brother was waiting for my mom at the terminal, and a police officer had approached him, asking him what he was doing there. My brother told him he was waiting for my mom, and the cop asked my brother to “follow him.” My mom later received a call from my brother saying that the police officer was holding him until she came to pick him up. She came to pick him up, asking what the problem was, and the officer said that they were having a problem with “runaways” and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t running away from home.

Now they may have actually had a problem with runaways, for there are some cops that are actually honest and care about doing the right thing. Plus, it was New York. I mean, think about all the movies you’ve seen where a child runs off and travels to the city. However, the fear, as a black mother, hearing from your black son that he is being held by police, is unfathomable.

As black people we need to build each other up. We need to stop killing each other, categorizing each other, and hating on one another, because that’s what racist white America wants. We’re doing all the dirty work for them, and it’s sad that we only really show love for our black men and women when they’re dead and gone. It should not take someone’s name and picture to be put on a t-shirt and then worn at a protest for us to appreciate them. In order to fight back, we’ve gotta unite. Whether you’re lightskin or darkskin, rich or poor, African or African American, PWI (Predominately White Institution) or HBCU (Historically Black College/University) bound, it doesn’t matter. In the street, America only sees us as “black.” In its eyes, we are all the same.

African American men, I am going to tell you that almost everyone around you is going to try to keep you down. They are going to try to arrest you, shoot you down in the streets, and tear you apart. They’ll tell you that you aren’t good enough, and that you probably won’t live long to accomplish anything. You all need to make sure you go to college, get a good education, and become leaders in this world. Those cops do not fear the guns and weapons, they’ve got some of their own. No, what those cops fear is an educated black man, because once you are woke about what America really thinks of you, it is hard to go back to keeping your eyes closed, and it scares them that a person such as this, could eventually be in charge.

Now, turning my attention towards those that feel the need to categorize African American women and belittle them with the intent of breaking them down piece by piece, you must be educated. If you are asking “Why does it bother you when people say the “n” word if they aren’t black?” or “Why does it bother you if a girl gets box braids if she isn’t black?” or “why does it bother you if a white boy walks around wearing a durag?”, you, quite frankly, are part of the problem.

The people that used to make fun of black girls wearing braids are the same girls that now wanna wear them, switching it up and calling them “boxer braids.” Y’all are so quick to blast Future out of your car, yelling “God blessing all the trap n*****” as you pull out of your driveways, but when it comes down to our people being killed and slaughtered in the street, in front of their families and friends, y’all are SILENT. In the words of your beloved Future, “where ya a** was at?” Y’all are now so busy trying to copy us and be like us, but when we need your help to fight for our rights, it’s not any of your concern.

My advice to young African American women is that you must learn to be independent, strong, and able to stand alone. The ones who smile in your face every morning, are sometimes those same people that will stab you in the back when something goes wrong. Once my senior year of high school came and I was happy with who I was, there were so many that tried to break my spirit. My friends had stopped talking to me, and I was no longer included. There were mornings I would cry on my way to school because I felt so alone and I couldn’t take it anymore. Even now I get “what happened to _______?” and all I can do is shrug my shoulders.

I was so used to being considered unattractive that once men started to come along, I didn’t know what to do. I became clingy and obsessive, and I let them just walk all over me. My self confidence was so low that I needed a man to validate my beauty and purpose. When I didn’t have a man or wasn’t interested in anyone, I felt empty. I really didn’t know who I was without someone by my side.

I have learned that I do not need to rely on a friend or a man to make me feel whole and valuable. I am strong and beautiful all on my own, and I want all of my black women to feel the same. We need to let these people know that not all black women fit their stereotype, but the ones that do should not be dehumanized either. Us black women are very diverse in our nature, but we must appreciate the women that act like what society assumes them to act like, for they are also just as special.

Black girls need to realize their self worth and make sure they have that sense of self love. Remember to stay positive, hold your head high, drink water, oil your scalp, keep your edges laid, and smile in the faces of your enemies.

So the totem pole that society’s made for itself can reside as it has for centuries. The present and future generations of black women will know that on their own personal totem pole, they are at the top.