After reading the introduction to “A Second Glance”, I was thinking, “NOPE! Looks like I’m not sharing.” (L0L!) I’ll share with Tiffany but there is no way I’m about to share with other people because these are my personal thoughts. Not only that, but I’m an introvert and I don’t readily give information about myself to others. But the more I thought about it, and after remembering that I told Tiffany I would post it (L0L!), I thought okay I’ll share. Soo Enjoy..?

Background:

My foundation was laid by my mother and my grandparents. These three people have had the biggest impact on my life. My mother was a single parent, had three jobs, and was the sole provider. My grandfather was the achiever, had a doctorate, was a pastor, and minister. And my grandmother was the true representation of a lady, wife, mother, with a gentle caring spirit. All three, have had an impact on how I view myself and helped develop my confidence. By confidence I mean the fact that I was not easily influenced to be something I was not, I was my own individual, and I was determined to chase my dreams and fulfill my propose no matter the cost. I knew who I was and I was comfortable in the skin I was in.

One of my favorite things to do with my grandmother was to simply sit on the porch and watch people. I imagine she watched the neighborhood transform before her eyes as the respectable black people moved out, and the ignorant, no commonsense having, young people moved in. I would always hear her say, “My goodness, look at these young ladies with children!” “Look, I can see her bottom coming out of her shorts!” “Lord have mercy, I can see all down her shirt!” I don’t remember her telling me directly not to do these things but her message came across very clear that a lady should respect her body in all aspects. (To this day I don’t wear shorts. Nothing wrong with shorts, but since my legs are so long it always seems like I’m revealing more than I should).

As a child, I was always a free spirit, adventurous, a dreamer, and I allowed my imagination to take me places I had never been. If you are familiar with the Myers Briggs Type Indicator, you would call me an INFJ. The only thing I remember wanting different was straight hair since I started going to a school where I was the only black person. Other than that, I was completely satisfied with myself including my appearance, until… My mother got married. Her physically and verbally abusive marriage had a negative effect on my appearance. Not only that, but my eyes sight started changing, and yes, the years of the dreaded glasses came. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the extent of my stepfather’s controlling nature. He controlled my mother by being abusive and controlled me by controlling my physical appearance (buying me boyish looking clothes and big glasses). The simple freedom of dressing myself was taken away from me. Being a creative person, one can imagine how these were the worst years of my life. Even though we were well off financially, it seemed like my stepparent was the only one benefiting. It wasn’t until the middle, to end of high school when my mother finally got out of that relationship. I was “free” to dress myself again, in a way that represented “me”.

At first I didn’t know what to do with this freedom and for many years I played it safe. Not really expressing myself through my appearance, partly because I didn’t know what I liked on me anymore. Eleven years of being in an controlling, fear inducing household, not being able to share my opinion, etc had really taken a toll on me and it wasn’t until recently (past 3 years) that I was able to dress the way my creativity and imagination allowed.

Present Day:

What I choose to dress my body in is very important to me. Not the “it’s got to be name brand or cost more than $500” important but it’s imperative that it’s pleasing to my eyes. Thus, I have never been a bandwagon participant to trends and crazes. To me my body is my personal masterpiece. It is a direct reflection of who I am. I don’t have any tattoos, but I do have a nose ring, only because in my opinion it compliments my face. Recently I went natural, not because everyone seems to be on the natural movement, but because I like big hair and for other personal reasons like marking a pivotal point in my journey in life, and embracing the way I was created. I tend to stay away from: fake nails, thin or colored-in eye brows, colored contacts, a face caked with makeup, weaves, fake eyelashes, etc, because I don’t feel like these things truly represent me as a person, and they definitely don’t reflect my values given to me by my grandparents. To me, these things strip me of my identity. I find myself staying away from these things also because certain females who may have my same skin complexion or similar facial features do things that give us a bad reputation as females. For example: I don’t know how many times I’ve been stopped and lectured by “Street Prophets”, “Deacons”, “Bishops”, “Ministers”, whose discernment was way off, but they felt like they had a word from God for me, telling me to leave these thugs in the street alone, and I don’t need to have “baby daddies” … (At this point I wish I could somehow type in my facial expression.)

Those who know me are probably laughing. I don’t know any “thugs”, and I clearly don’t have any children. I’ve only been in one relationship, to someone I have known since I was eight years old and I’ve been with this person for going on 8 years. He is someone who challenges me mentally, and has a career of his own, as I do. Anyway, interestingly enough, since I’ve gone natural these types of judgments have stopped. Hmmm… L0L!

That’s pretty much my identity and appearance story thus far…

My favorite thing to do on that farm was to lay in the grass in the front yard with my books and pretend that when the sun shone on me, if I was smiling, I was shining right back. I always felt like I was shiny, not like oily, but like people noticed me. That they could see how happy I was on the inside from the outside.

Grandma enrolled me in Kindergarten and an after-school program at a local daycare center. As far as I could tell, the center was run by two women, both middle-aged and black. They weren’t very nice, and seemed to have a rather healthy distaste for children. I can’t truly remember their smiles, but I remember their scowls vividly. However, what I remember most often, and with stunning clarity, about these women is their preference for the children with lighter skin. My skin isn’t particularly dark, but it’s definitely not light. I wouldn’t pass the brown-paper-bag test.

The center was made up of black children almost exclusively, and we had been very carefully categorized, and in some cases, pit against each other. These women didn’t just prefer lighter skinned children, they also terrorized the children with very dark skin.

I had a friend at the center named Olivia. She had the kind of dark skin that I dream about having now. It was blue-black and soft like a pearl. One day, Olivia got into a fight with a lighter-skinned girl and when our “caretakers” saw this, one of them held Olivia’s hands behind her and let the other girl get her “hits back”. Then they told Olivia not to cry because they didn’t want to look at her ashy face.

Now, I wasn’t the one being terrorized here, but this was the first time I thought about the way I looked and realized that I’d never be called beautiful, but I’d never be called ugly either. I was just…invisible. And maybe, invisible was better than beautiful, or even better than shiny.

Through different educational moments, I’ve learned about self-hate and where the light-skin/dark-skin good hair/nappy hair dichotomy comes from and how it is perpetuated. I now realize that these women were kinda sick. I also realize there are still a LOT of black people for whom light-skin/good hair will always be superior to dark-skin/nappy hair.

At this time in my life, I’m so happy to say that I am no longer content to be invisible. The more I learn about beauty—REAL beauty—the more beauty I find in myself, inside and out. My kinky hair, the sole dimple in my left cheek, my brown eyes, my comedic timing, my love for children, and my passion for social justice are all very, very beautiful things about me, and I don’t want to hide them. I want to let them shine.

Twiggy was the supermodel of the day. Flat chested, no hips and lots of mascara. I wanted to look just like her.

When I was in 5th grade, I developed a chest. My brother continuously made fun of me, and so did my classmates. I had been a competitive swimmer before that, but I was embarrassed to wear a bathing suit, so I quit.

My mom used to tell me how, when I was 6 mos old, the pediatrician had put me on a diet, “even though I didn’t feed you differently than your brother”.

Those are the roots of the poor self-image that I’ve carried with me all of my life. I’m genetically disposed to gain weight (BOTH grandmothers) and starved myself for 30 years so that I could wear a size 6 (which is hard to do if you have a 38″ chest). For years, I took a Dexatrim along with my multivitamin for breakfast, had a diet Coke for lunch, and usually salad for supper. I envied a friend of mine who was bulimic (I tried it, but I hate vomiting) and used to periodically wish I was anorexic so that I wouldn’t LIKE food. I was cranky and bitchy – but I looked great.

When I was 44 years old, I was diagnosed with dysthymia, a chemical imbalance-induced mild depression. I was put on a low dose of antidepressants and guess what? One of the side effects was weight gain. When I complained to the psychiatrist, his response was that I could either gain weight or be depressed – it was my choice.

I still periodically gain and lose the same 25 lbs, but at the age of 54, after open-heart surgery, I am starting to become more accepting of this body that I’ve abused most of my life. I am actively trying to foster a sense of confidence and self-esteem in my 9-year old granddaughter and my 21-year old niece so that they never rely on popular culture and media to tell them what they should look like.

It shaped who other people thought I was. It was more malleable than anything else Logan. I couldn’t easily change my personality, mannerisms or voice. Altering those bits of Logan, even for a short time, required intense concentration and effort. There was no such effort necessary when it came to appearance. Appearance allowed me to change the reality of me. And I did.

At first, I used it to convince you I was different. From my clothes, you could plainly see I was a TOTAL BADASS because of my love for Metallica and JNCO jeans. You ignored the fact that I was in middle school because only a BADASS could dress that way.

Next, I used it to hide from you. You couldn’t see anything but the Abercrombie shirts and jeans that everyone else was wearing. You didn’t care to see, and that was fine by me.

Then I switched to hair because it was easier to change. I used it to push you into a reality where I felt more comfortable. You saw a teenager with a curly, blond mess of hair and you thought he was weird, goofy, funny, interesting and confident. You never thought his nerves were off the charts whenever he was around people.

The hair grew. I used it to distract from my new solution to the living-in-my-skin problem: More of everything that would alter my state of mind. You looked at my hair first. I didn’t have to worry about you noticing the glassy, bloodshot eyes hiding underneath.

A hat came next. I used it to make you think I wasn’t the typical college kid. What does Borla even mean? You didn’t know, and I didn’t care to tell you. If I did, you just thought I was a car-obsessed hick with a Camaro. You never found out about the true obsession, the all-consuming need for More.

The hair came back, bigger than before. I used it again, because it was all I had. You saw it before anything else. I made sure. You asked me about it during a job interview. I told you people would look past the hair to see the real me. I desperately hoped that wouldn’t happen.

The hair went away for a television commercial. You told me I would be in it. You lied.

I fought the More issue. I lost. I fought again. I lost. I fought many more times. I lost, again and again.

Then, I won.

I found out the truth. You never cared about my appearance. Like almost everything else that came with the More problem, it was all in my head.

I got a tattoo. I did it for me.

I kept my hair short. I did it for me.

Now, I’m growing my hair out. I’m doing it for kids with cancer.

Appearance is sometimes a distraction.

My weight has always been the one thing I wish I could fix. It started in grade school that I started to obsess about my weight. I had a yellow Tommy jacket when I was in third grade, and I remember Luke Smith calling me ‘big bird’… Although, still to this day I wake up and think about how I wish I was smaller. In high school, my senior year , I worked out three times a day, and I became obsessive about what went into my body. I would go to the gym at 4:30 a.m. before school, have advanced physical conditioning, and then had softball practice. At this time I was maxing out at 300 lbs for squat, which made my legs the size of tree trunks. I would eat egg beaters with fruit in the morning, at lunch a salad with no dressing aka just lettuce, and for dinner I would always tell my parents I wasn’t hungry.

I wanted to look perfect for college. When it was time to buy my prom dress I was actually kind of excited because I felt pretty. I went shopping in Atlanta for my dress with my three sisters. My sister Holly, helped me in the dressing room. After I had tried on about two dresses I started having a panic attack because they didn’t look the way I wanted. In the middle of trying the third dress on I started shaking and tears ran down my face as I screamed at my sister to stop looking at my body. (I am shaking right now thinking about how I felt then) I remember her reassuring me that I looked fine, but of course… I thought she was just saying that to calm me down. My sisters to this day still joke about how I reacted that day, but to me it is not a joke.

Like always I eventually gained the weight back. Spring semester of my freshman year, I joined a sorority, which only made me even more insecure about my appearance. All of the women who were in my sorority were great people, but I had trouble getting past the fact that I was the one of the biggest members. Majority of women dated athletes, were a size 2, had perfect hair, and always came equipped with the newest Juicy purse.

One of the major reasons I joined the sorority I did was because my mother was a member. I have always longed for my mother’s acceptance, but I never live up to her standards. She used to tell me all the time that I needed to get in shape. To this day whenever I talk to her she always slips in something about how I need to change my appearance. I remember when I was little we were half way to the pool one time, and we had to drive all the way home because she forgot to apply lipstick. She never goes anywhere without her lipstick and hair teased to a tee.

My dad is just like my mom on this topic, if not worse now. Daddy works out at least five times a week for an hr and ½ or more. My father never lets me forget that I am bigger. The summer before my freshman year of high school, he told me I was a ‘fat fuck’. Of course, he does not remember that at all. My dad is my best friend, but he does not understand that I am a woman, and he cannot be so blunt when he is talking about issues like my weight.

People always see me as an outgoing kind of person, but in reality… that is not who I am at all. Loud, in your face Ashley is the Ashley people see when they do not know me well. Being loud is a cover up for my insecurities.

Over the past year and half, I have finally become happier with who I am. There will always be things I want to change about myself, but I have learned that in life true friends don’t care about anything except what is inside you. I really started to think I wasn’t totally hideous with the help from guys I have dated in the past. It boosted my confidence to have people for once be in my corner saying I looked ok haha…

I now feel like I sound silly about this whole topic, but I am pretty sure I am not alone on the way I feel. I am sure that other people in the world feel the same way I do about their weight.

When I was in middle school, I remember sitting in class one day when a girl pointed at my bare legs and shouted “Oh my GOD! I HOPE you’re wearing white tights!” I wasn’t. I was (am) that pale.

I had always been teased about my fair skin but I had also been careful to wear sunblock and not burn, having had several severe sunburns. One even blistered so badly, it bled. I started wearing jeans year-round. It was easier for me to swelter through the hottest summer days than to bare my legs (that huge expanse of skin was, to me, more noticeable than my arms or other visible skin) and endure countless offhanded comments about my paleness, which I’d obsess over for days.

Middle school wasn’t kind. I was pale and skinny and I guess to some people, looked sick. I forgot my lunch one day and was getting a book from my locker to read during lunch period when my science teacher approached me. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me I didn’t have to hide anymore. I told him I wasn’t sure what I meant. He told me he’d seen me pick at my food and noticed that today I’d forgotten to bring any at all. He asked me if I was anorexic. I wasn’t.

Here I was, at a vulnerable time. My body was changing, but it was awkward and I was self-conscious. I had been told I was too pale and too skinny by my peers and now by an authority figure. My self-esteem was crushed.

It continued in high school, when I would not go swimming with my girlfriends or don a short dress for Homecoming. I was constantly in trouble for wearing sweatpants instead of shorts during gym class. I hated for people to watch me eat because I felt I was being hounded for signs of an eating disorder because of my slight build.

When I reached college, my self-esteem was in shreds. I was so timid I was afraid to even register for classes. I can’t say I’m completely self-assured, but something happened in those four years. It may have been the compliment I received from a favorite professor who told me I looked like a Renaissance painting. I was more self-assured in classes. I was an English major and a favorite of the faculty. As my mind grew, so did the idea of what beauty could be. I traveled to Europe and felt as though I fit in with the English rose beauties I saw prancing the streets of London. I was told I was smart and pretty. I’ve never bought into those adjectives completely. There will always be a little doubt. But somewhere along the line, as I developed my mind, I learned that I am what I am and that hiding it is the ugliest thing there is.

Its rare to hear about black people going to the tanning bed and my reason might seem odd but I want to be one color. I recently took a trip to the Bahamas and soaked up a lot of sun only to return and begin peeling a week or two after.

So I want go tanning a few times to get my color back. No one pointed out to me that I’ve lost my tan but looking in the mirror it’s noticeable.

I’m constantly aware of my skin and complexion because of my really bad eczema and have always gone through different obstacles to make sure I was comfortable with the world seeing me. If the tanning bed and me ever meet, I hope it will give me the desired overall complexion I desire in further enhancing my overall appearance, in my mind.

Tina Fey told a little story in an interview once about how her grandmother was proud of her large nose, because it gave her a sense of humor. The little anecdote was very funny and hit pretty close to home for me, as someone who was not the pretty duckling throughout elementary and middle school. I was the duckling with the boy-short hair and buck teeth and perpetual scrapes on both knees.

But I eventually outgrew middle school and I outgrew a lot of my “unattractiveness.” My hair grew out and my teeth straightened up and, let’s be honest, my boobs got respectably big. What I didn’t outgrow was the sense of humor I developed during my awkward years. I’m sure it started out as a coping mechanism, but before long it was just part of me. It was who I was. I felt proud of the attention I would get from boys passing me in the hallway, but when I made a classroom burst out laughing, I never felt better.

My junior year in high school, I developed a very serious crush on a boy who to this day is one of the funniest people I have ever known. We could go back and forth for hours and make everyone laugh at the lunch table, and when I talked to him I felt completely giddy, not because I had a crush on him, but because he was so much fun. Everything became an opportunity to have a sense of humor.

You all see where this is going right?

One day at the aforementioned lunch table, in a whole group of friends, we decided to play “Fuck, Chuck or Marry.” For those of you not familiar, you suggest three people and someone has to choose from those three who they would…fuck, chuck, or marry. Quickly the game grew personal, and my crush was asked who he would fuck, chuck, or marry, and his choices were me and my two best friends.

Now we all see where this is going, I hope.

I got chucked.

And as he took it upon himself to explain his reasoning, I felt increasingly terrible, even though I was laughing it off. “I’d marry Brittany because she has very classic features and I feel l like she would be a good mom.”

“I’d fuck Julie because she has a really sweet personality and has blonde hair.”

“And I’d chuck Hannah because she’s…like a guy.”

WOAH HANG ON. I wasn’t laughing any more. “What do you mean, like a guy?”

“Well…it’s not like the way you look, you’re cute and everything, and you don’t do manly things or act like…you know, a dyke or whatever,” he said in that lame backtrack voice that people use when they say stupid shit and just keep on saying stupid shit.

“So then how am I like a dude if I’m nothing like a dude?” I said. “Pretty sure I’m not following your dumb fucking logic.”

“Well…it’s because you’re funny.”

That completely blew me away. Being funny was something I was so proud of, because anyone can be pretty and a lot of people are smart but being funny takes talent. Not a lot of talent, but still.

At that moment I realized that “being funny” was something that some people equate with men, and that some people think women can’t be funny. So if a woman did, God forbid, make you laugh, she was masculine, because humor is a man’s thing. Especially if that humor is poking fun at people or dishing it right back or basically doing anything other than telling a stupid knock knock joke.

And it was also at this moment that I realized that for some people, there were only two choices I had. I could dumb it down and quit the funny shit and just be cutesy and sweet and maybe my “classic features” or my “sweet personality” would shine through more, or I could continue being funny and making people laugh but seen as a masculine goofball who would be hot if she shut the hell up.

I just stared at this person, that literally one minute prior I had so much admiration for, and felt my whole perspective shift.

I refused to accept that I could be desirable, or I could be funny, but I couldn’t be both. I didn’t have to choose between the two. I just had to choose better people to have crushes on.

And so, now when I’m in a big group of people doing my best Lil Wayne impression or telling a story about how I vomited in eighth grade when I found out what a BJ was, I know that I’m probably making stupid faces and weird motions and I’m probably not looking like a supermodel making sexy face.

But I like to think that this might be the most attractive thing about me: that I’m not afraid to let my personality come through, no matter how weird it makes me look.