A Letter to a Black Girl

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To Whom It May Concern (and those who may think it doesn’t):

So, when exactly did it start? As I sit and ponder on when I can recall my first moment of  interaction with sexuality, I realize I can’t do it. I can’t remember. It’s as simple as that.
Sooner than later, I come up with the idea that I first came across sexuality when it was taken from me. I had never realized who I was sexually or if I was even a sexual being when a man decided he was confident in his sexuality enough and would affirm his ego. At that moment, sexuality had me. I didn’t have my sexuality.

The moment after my sexuality was taken, I wasn’t aware of exactly what was happening, but believe it or not, there was a secret decline in my spirit. My own personal sexual identity was stripped before it bloomed. At 6 years old. I hadn’t even realized that I had it, never got a chance to use it, identify it, locate or plan for it. Instead, mine was chosen by someone else and used strictly for his disposal, with no regard to the fact that I was his flesh and blood.

The interesting thing about all of this is that, it was someone old enough to understand and realize exactly what he was doing. See, he knew. I didn’t.

As I sit on this plane, I realize exactly how pissed I am. I’m deeply hurt actually. I mean, think about it. It’s disgusting. A grown man decided to introduce a 6 year old to the
harsh realities of life. I wasn’t born on July 4th, 1988. I was born into society on that day, in my day bed, at 6 years old. I didn’t have the opportunity to make my own decision
on whether or not I was even ready or able to engage in such behaviors. It troubles me sometimes to think that at such a young age, something can be bestowed upon you like that, but I realize that it is a part of a broader narrative that other black women face as well; young black girls in their adolescence, all the way up to grown black women in their
dealings with the real world.

I realize it’s not only a struggle I had alone, but it’s also a struggle that unifies us, silently of course, because we never seem to be able to talk about things like that. Even
as I write this, I realize I wasn’t able to talk about it, my mom wasn’t able to talk about it for me. My family still has no clue about it. Now, its time to talk about it.

As I reflect, I realize that I didn’t know how that experience shaped how I think about my sexuality and things in that regard. It’s almost like, after that happened, I went through
years of a frozen consciousness so to speak; of thinking and feeling and realizing that experience was essential to how I thought and felt about sex and sexuality. It’s only now that I can remember, not remember as in recount the past, but remember and realize how that experienced shaped, shapes and influenced certain decisions and opinions about sex for me.
You know, it’s almost scary.
I wonder what that frozen period is called.
Is it blocking out the memory of pain?
Is it simply not existing in the consciousness of what happened to me sexually?
What is that?
Is that being silenced?
You will be surprised to know that I still don’t know what that is.
To all US Black girls who still don’t know what THAT is
or are still lost there, remember:
They have ignored what we say.
Our hopes.
Our truths.
The tangled web that’s woven.
For us, on behalf of us.
Know that their ears and minds cannot comprehend the navigation.
Instilled in the fibers of our being.
To possess the power to dismantle the matrix.
WE speak a language, seldom translatable.
In the name of ourselves.
In the name of being Black girls, speak and know.
And to society and everyone else involved,
Recognize The Revolution.

In complete openness, honesty and humility,
—A Black Girl

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