Too Dark, Too Black, and Too Ugly (African Booty Scratcher)

AIR — The Moment I Was Named

I never thought about my skin. Not really.

Not until that day—the boys, the concrete, the sun.

“She’s beautiful,” one said, his voice skipping over me like I wasn’t standing right there.

“Who? Stephanie?” the other boy laughed. “Nah, I’m talking about her friend. That’s just an African booty scratcher.”

And that was it.

In one sentence, I became something less than girl.

Less than child. Less than worthy.

I didn’t know shame had a voice until it borrowed theirs.

Didn’t know color could cut until it sliced through my joy like that.

I stood beside her—my best friend with her ocean-blue eyes, her fair skin catching the light like it had been kissed by favor.

And suddenly, I became the shadow next to the sparkle.

They didn’t whisper it.

They said it loud.

So I wouldn’t forget.

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EARTH — Hood Baby

I was born in San Francisco.

Raised in the Sunnydale Projects—highlighted in the 1988 “Blacks and Crack” special like a case study in collapse.

We lived beneath the concrete.

No running water. No lights. Mice in the walls. Roaches in the bread.

My childhood was hunger and cold floors and moving every two years.

My home didn’t have mirrors.

So I didn’t know what beauty was supposed to look like.

I was a hood baby.

The kind people didn’t romanticize.

The kind people didn’t rescue.

And when you grow up surrounded by brokenness,

you start to believe you’re made of it.

You start to believe beauty is for other people.

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FLAME — The Rejection That Built Me

My parents never called me beautiful.

Not once.

Not until I was in my 30s—long after I had already built myself from dust and ache.

So I became what I thought might matter:

Smart.

Sharp.

Funny.

Charming.

Useful.

Extraordinary.

Because if I couldn’t be pretty, I’d be everything else.

I wore perfection like a shield.

Pressed clothes. Decorated degrees. Immaculate home.

But every accolade was born from shame.

I was surviving rejection by performing brilliance.

And no one ever saw the girl underneath.

But now I do.

Now I see her.

FLOW — The Sacred Luxury of Being Me

Now I hold myself like scripture.

Now I dress myself in reverence.

I don’t need applause to feel worthy.

I don’t need a man to call me beautiful.

Because I am the altar.

The dusk and the dawn.

The wildflower and the flame.

I am not the shame I was handed.

I am the reverence I reclaimed.

Even the ache has its place—

It is the cradle where I learned to love myself.

So I live in luxury now.

Not because of what I have.

But because of who I know I am.

I am holy.

I am divine.

I am beauty before it was named.

🌿 Quote:

“Another woman beauty is not the absence of your own.  No matter what they think, only you can define who you are” -unknown

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🌱 Life Lesson:

Rejection doesn’t mean you’re unworthy—it often just reveals who was never meant to recognize your light. The mirror you build for yourself will always reflect more truth than the eyes that refused to see you.

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🛠 Practical Tool:

Each morning, speak one loving truth to your younger self—out loud, in the mirror. Begin with “You are beautiful because…” and finish the sentence differently each day. Let it become a ritual that rewrites the memory.

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📖 Advice:

When the world teaches you to compensate for your beauty, rewrite the script. Don’t just perform worth—embody it. Stop waiting to be chosen. Dress, speak, and walk like you already are.