This is an awkward case of 'the ugly duckling who after reuniting with her swan family, decided she is better off as her former duck self'.
We owe who we are, to every word and action, said and performed to and around us. A sum total of all that we 'consume'. It took me 15 or so years, never being able to keep a friend, and a trail of broken hearts to realise and admit, that I am an escapist. With a bag of intellectual tricks and a seemingly immortal monster under my bed. I have never been able to face anything, and put it to rest, in my life. I run away from anything that even closely resembles the uncomfortable.
It all started when my parents sent me to primary school. Everything has roots, so this is my attempted diagnosis of the origins of my 'thing'. I did not come from the kind of family that new to prepare a little dark-skinned girl for the harsh realities of life. I got teased my socks off (meaning, very much). Until I began doing it to myself. I know everything there is to know about "internalising stigma". I mean, imagine this: I was sitting in computer class, next to a guy called Dimakatso. He said, "you are the ugliest girl in this class" whilst he laughed. I just smiled at him, like an idiot. Then he said, "no seriously, look at it, who do YOU think is the ugliest girl in this class?" I looked at him, sadder than I have ever been, but with the biggest smile on my face, and I said "me". Something inside of me died that day. I meant nothing to anybody, is what I felt like. Heavy on the shoulders of a 10 years old is that reality. I spent the rest of my primary school life trying not to draw any attention to myself, trying to be as invisible as possible. I remember grade 6D Miss Du Toit's class; sitting with my head on my hands so no one will feel tempted to talk to me, because I knew what they would say if they did. That is the synecdoche of what my primary school life became. Lord, it was heavy.
When high school came, I fell on the lap of India Arie, she raised me (introduced to her by my aunt). I began to understand some things about beauty that allowed me for the first time, to imagine myself as anything either than ugly, as another kind of beautiful. I saw that the world wants so much more than a combination of light skin and facial symmetry.
A giant leap for mankind I must say. It was in matric, in history class that I discovered slam poetry. Also where I made the connection between the oppression of a black 'self' and these misplaced modern standards of beauty.
When first year came, I was on those poetry sessions like I breathed them. I began to write and was exposed to a world of understanding I had never imagined.
The best writers, are readers. I picked up a book or two every now and then and thus my eyes opened wider, as did my mind. It is this self-culture of reading and writing that bore me into the world of intellectualism. Scarcely does a reader miss the path that moves her/him from opinionated to knowledgeable to wise. I met many a brave soul, trodding the land of 'questioning the status quo', and found temporary peace in how I looked, because I figured, I am not ugly, society has messed up eyes.
That became my attitude, for a while. At the same time I bloomed into the stereotype that many young South African, black, female poets fall into, as they are growing. The fist-in-the-air; all-star-wearing; afro-comb; long-skirted; eff-the-standard type.
This was me for about 3 years, always being called rasta, by people with very narrow perception. Having people inbox me on facebook not because they cared to be in my life, but because they wanted to understand if I have renounced their christ and become a weed-smoking heathen. It is actually funny, I have been asked many things on the street, from 'is your husband rasta', to 'are you a traditional healer, can I use your services'. It is amazing what different things a long skirt and a head-wrap mean to different people.
It was around this time that I met the African Hebrew Israelites. A community that has strong-headed sisters dawning long skirts, natural hair, and strong believers in the balance of life. I had won the conscious-black-sister lottery, is what I felt like.
I felt vindicated, and validated. This community took me back to a time where my 'type', was beautiful. My 'type' of dark and all natural, was the standard, without question. I did whatever it took to be them.
They made me feel that they had won my battles for me, I could stop fighting to stay aligned to the ideas that kept my insecurities at bay. I saw myself in them, or, the self I had created from the pieces of "look at her" that the world threw at me.
It felt like the ugly duckling. In the moment she saw other swans, and realised, 'I make an ugly duck, but I am not a duck'. I am a swan, with my lovely white wings, I am a very beautiful swan. A moment where everything black and white fills with colour. A coming of age! (so to speak).
Until something kicked me awake again, that this was yet another well orchestrated escape from something I never dealt with.
Upon the realisation of my swan-hood, I want to return to the duck experiences that raised me.
This is the blog-post that tells the world, that I am letting it all go, to see how far I will get, if I walk straight in the direction of my monster. Back to my childhood bed, to lift the sheets, and face the skeletons I never buried. Where I tried to turn stones into bread, because I was not accepted at the table. Look at myself again, not as beautiful in certain context, but as beautiful, period!
If ever I am wrong, I will be the first to come back and admit, how strongly convicted I can become, by something so stupid.
