The Truth About Self-Hatred

“I was teased growing up,” I began.  “For three years, male and female tweens talked about the size of my nose, the color of my skin, my skinny legs, and non existent breast,” I continued.  Initially, I had no intentions of divulging my adolescent tale of woe with the fourth and fifth grade mentees, but I deemed it necessary.

Just before my comments the girls viewed a PowerPoint presentation of women thought of as beautiful:  Beyonce, Rihanna, Ciara, and then Lupita Nyong’o.  The immediate response to Lupita’s image was one of disdain. She was dark and her hair was short.

“She’s bald headed,” one said.  Another described her as, “Black.” Even though her features mirrored several of the girls in the room, she was harshly criticized.  Before I knew it an indignation rose in me.  I had to speak.

I had to speak because I knew somewhere in that crowd of estrogen was a girl who felt just as I did when I was her age.  She needed an advocate, someone to stand up and say you are beautiful.  She needed someone to teach her how to love herself.  

The effects of self hatred and low self-esteem are subtle: slowly infiltrating our psyche until we don’t even notice it.  Constantly, we are bombarded with a barrage of images dictating what beauty is and is not. Air brushed women with hair and wardrobe stylist, personal makeup artist and plastic surgery are touted as the world’s standard of beauty.  And I’ll be the first to say I have believed the lie, often enduring a torture filled regiment of hair straightening, face painting, eyebrow plucking, and spanx (need I say more).  

I do this in an attempt to reach the ever rising beauty bar.  If I didn’t straighten, paint,  pluck or squeeze my appearance would be drastically different.  In my purest state I’d have bushy eyebrows, uneven skin, a protruding belly, and a rather large afro.  This image will never meet the societal standard of beauty, but it does meet God’s.  

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