What does it really mean to be a black woman? Did you really expect this next line to forfeit layers and intricacies about melanin, ignored history of royalty, contribution to past and present day society, and the everyday battle with “the man”? I could, and I have, but I haven't seen any direct improvement in my life by describing that. Being a black woman is a crazy label in this society that I’ve simply been reacting to by living. So, here are some of my premeditated reactions.

Black women are often reduced to the essence of body oils, curvature, and backs that carry burdens. Those things are far from insulting...except when you're a black woman on the simple course of achieving independently perceived humanity and you don’t fit any of those standards, or you do but you don’t want to. Some days you want to walk down the street and hear the word “hello” by someone who has absolutely no anticipation of who you are or what could happen next on the basis of your physical appearance. Still, that doesn't mean that I don't want someone to see my physical appearance. In a perfect world, I would not want for that person to look at me, and not see color. I’d want both of us to see our color, and be amazed at the beauty and potential of what our differences bring to the table.

I have managed to be utterly confused by the placement of the human spirit into categories while somehow winning a title that represents one. Basically, I am known now as Miss Black America 2016. I spent a good amount of time researching the Pageant and why it started in order to give it my all in competition, and this is what I came up with: A black woman is beautiful, a black woman is accomplished. A black woman is strong, she smiles for pictures, she waves with poise, she wears a crown. She represents black women with grace. Then there's me. The hyper-eclectic, shaved-headed songstress, that makes jewelry, eats seaweed crisps, and loves men…of all races. I consistently give back to my community in different ways, but I didn't know what any of that would mean to the judges. We were all competing on the grounds of being wonderful black women. There was absolutely no way we could have chosen based upon the generic examples of what it means to be one.

Clearly, the only reason they would be able to pick is because they had to.

How does anyone really go about defining humanity in terms of color? The black people I know get up and take a shot at life every day in whatever set of paradigms they hold close. Doesn’t everyone do that? The black women I know have goals dreams and disappointments. Doesn’t everyone else?

What could they possibly be looking for? What could this society I live in possibly be using to set black women apart from other women? From other people?

I suppose the likeness in experiences we share cause us to continue separating ourselves. And, at the end the day, even in a perfect world, I could still see us wanting to celebrate those differences in some way...

So I wear this color proudly as a result, but I wear my soul more brightly. I wear my smile like a scarf, and I wear my kindness like a Christmas sweater. I choose to be superficially spiritual. I wear patience like gloves, causing a soft barrier between every spirit I touch, especially those who are simply trying to understand. Because of this, no one really has the ultimate solution for peace. In moments, I wear my spirit more boldly than anything, I see the direct result. Sure the beauty is entirely relative, but our conversation is recognized as art and respected. I wore my soul on the stage of the Miss Black America Pageant. I believe some of the other contestants did the same, but I left mine there. Surely the judges, who have been plagued by systematic racism themselves weren't looking only for the details in my skin tone. They were looking for my character. They were looking for my true colors.