A Memo: Joy in Resistance to Brown Caricatures

With smooth pink lips and cocoa skin, it is no wonder that I swaddle the attention of many. However, the type of attention I receive is not at fault of mine, but a byproduct of our current social system. I will never forget my time in Israel, riddled with microaggressions and violence that threatened my safety.

“What kind of porn do you watch?” was one of the first questions I got after a week of being there. It was a friend who claimed Russian Israeli heritage and was training for the IDF. Another friend of the same background posted a story after my departure saying, “Niggas be like?” on Instagram. After telling him that word was only reserved for Black people, he told me about how it was okay in his culture and refused to take it down.

So, it is safe to say that when I witnessed the Black shop owners I saw in Tel Aviv, called destitute by our tour guide I wasn’t surprised. Despite having shops of the same quality of the Muslim storefronts in Akko, mislabeling of clearly independent and organized Black immigrants stood. Racism dominates culture.

Now that I have arrived in Missouri for six years of graduate studies, I feel the same caricature narrative. I get catcalled by men who have laugh lines, crows’ feet, and the freckled moles around the eye that represent the hallmarks of Black aging. They are an uncle, father, or grandfather of a woman my age and inevitably inappropriate. While the initial attacks left me feeling aghast and powerless against patriarchal wheels that wreak havoc in the Black community, I came to the conclusion that I was going to figure out how to stand up for myself from the group I was taught to subserviently respect. Catching the public eye as a woman who lives, and travels sans company puts me at risk physically and psychologically. As shown by Mowat et. al, the hypervisibility of Black girls is quite dangerous.

In recent days, I have dyed my hair green, so the head turns are a little farther and the staring penetrates more deeply. I dart back in impatience to let strangers know their time is up. While respect for the Black woman is universally grim, there is a beauty about the positivity of young Black girls everywhere. At the local farmers market, a teen walked up to me to emphatically claim that my outfit was “Fire.” The f was emphasized. Her sweetness restored my hope and faith- as Black girl magic typically does.

The same hairdresser asked about my skincare routine during my appointment, and I said it was due to a recent inner transformation that made myself happier. While I struggle to remember the simple application of facewash and moisturizer, I knew that my routine of Neutrogena and sunflower oil wasn’t doing all of the work. She told me that she could tell that I loved myself. I hold that truth tenderly.

The hair is dyed, but the glow is natural.