A Meditation of Self-Love this Black History Month
Raegan (middle) with her stepdad and dad, 2022
The Evergreen Echo
Brown skin, they could never make me hate you.
There are many things about this corporeal form that bring me displeasure. This pulsing vessel of energy, meat, and blood bound taut within my skin. Every ache, itch, and bodily function an annoying reminder that the muscle throbbing in my chest and the wet goop in my skull are still fucking around inside me.
My skin is not me, but it is mine. I used to treat it preciously; cursing every scar, googling tips to reduce hyperpigmentation, denying the growth made evident by the stretch marks along well-developed curves. Now I relish them. I relish the tattoos, commissioned art on the walls of my true home. It is not a temple, but if it were, I would worship the goddess that resides within.
Boudoir photo featuring Raegan’s brown skin
Black history month comes every February, but before, during, and after my brown skin shelters me. The first line of defense between the softness within and the harsh exterior. My mind has been cultivated to love everything about myself. Every bit that another would hate, I think of my mother. Her eyes and hands, her love. She shared her body with me (and my sister), letting us develop in the safety of her skin. I think of my father, my grandparents, and every ancestor, whose traits trickle down. Shaping my nose, my lips, my laugh. The dimples in my cheeks. The gothic, morbid, resilience. Dark humor and the ability to see oneself in the refraction. My skin, part of the tapestry. My life, the needle moving through the world.
The thread connects all those who survived. How can I not love my brown skin?
I’m fortunate to love many Black women. In my family, friends, and the women fighting their way into the spotlight to shine. Skin shimmering under the rays of golden sun and silvery moon. The music, the fashion, the passion. I love Black culture. I love the threads that glide through America. Defying those that would deny our impact, our presence. When I move through the world I’m a Black woman. And if my skin is the first thing people see, then they already know what I know: That I am strong. That I’ve grown. That this brown skin has sheltered me lovingly time and time again.
I had the pleasure of hearing this poem read aloud recently and I think it captures the sentiments that I, decades later, still love about my skin, my Black history, and those who share its hues.
To the Black Beloved
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not beautiful
Yet thou hast
A loveliness
Surpassing beauty.
Oh,
My black one,
Thou art not good
Yet thou hast
A purity
Surpassing goodness.
Ah,
My black one,
Thou art not luminous
Yet an altar of jewels,
An altar of shimmering jewels,
Would pale in the light
Of thy darkness,
Pale in the light
Of thy nightness.
~Langston Hughes
