The scarcity of ethnic models in high fashion platforms offends me. The worst part of it all is that those few famous for representing the unimaginable amount of diversity innate the word black* are expected to imitate western standards. Straight hair. If not, a collection of purchased hair to fit the description. “But why?”
Pop Africana., bStore magazine, fuck yeah ethnic models.
The spook “paah!” sound of a pooped balloon marked the most exciting part of my month. This only reveals my misery in having to abandon the liberal essence of my existence. I am not happy. I am happy. I am not happy enough. That’s just it. I live to express passion, instead of fulfilling duty in this time of tension between life and death. Is that so bad? I live for excitement. I miss that.
To shame, with the fact I haven’t felt the need to dip in the Atlantic Ocean. Sad really. Been living in Cape Town for almost a month and my time has been scattered unwisely. Forgive myself? I shall, because having no friends to share the experience would make the effort unpleasant.
It’s almost obvious that the print has tribal reference, like the distinction between ethnic people from adversary. And. The presumptuous labelling concerned with distinctions. That dark is dirty, uneducated, and ugly… A dark woman wearing short skirt is a slut. A fair skinned lady in a short shirt is pretty. Especially amongst our own. Just as society moves towards a brighter shade of emancipation ethnics turn almost themselves, revealing the passive conditioning that leaves us in jealousy, self-loath and inherent blueprints.
This post (like all MY BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL posts) addresses self-love amongst ethnic women. As I try transition from chemically straightened to natural hair (NO< I did not cut my hair tjrrrr) I am bombarded with temptations to stake the easy ‘manageable’ ‘socially deemed’ way. Daily! It’s a mission, like all worthy things. It’s personal. Because confidence is bigger than chemical composition.