Selfie

I’ll say it once, nice and loud for you all to hear:

"I want to see your face, but I don’t want to see your face THAT much."

Some pictures of you on hols,

hanging out with friends,

trying out new make up,

and definitely with cool clothes on.

But fill my newsfeed with twenty of the same posed,

but trying to be natural shot

With sepia, willow, X Pro II and every other filter under the sun

And I will delete you.

I rarely put up selfies.

If I do,

they either contain my sidekick Zella:

Or me doing some ridiculous face:

No one wants to see just my normal face.

No one.

Putting a picture up of me,

just out there,

puts me on display.

Exposes me.

I remember being pregnant and getting requests from friends far away desperate to see my ever burgeoning bump, and I recoiled in fear, scared of comments I would get.

What if they didn’t think I was pretty?

Me with Zella? Well you have to think that’s cute.

Me with a stupid grin? Well you just have to laugh.

Me. Just me.

Well…what if it doesn’t get “likes”?

The truth is

Behind the newsfeed full of posed photos

Or the one devoid of them

There sits a woman with phone in hand

Girl with laptop

Lady staring at a screen

With a beauty to unveil

Wondering if anyone will see it

Notice it

Care about it

Love it

Bikini jumping at beach, ghetto twerking poses, inappropriate Halloween outfits

It all screams:

Do you see me?

Baggy clothes dragging, dark hair over eyes, scar marks on arms

It all screams

Do you see me?

We first became undone

That 1800s day

When we looked up from the bathroom sink

And our reflection stared back at us.

And then when the weighing scales,

that once resided so neatly on kitchen counters,

or so officially in doctors offices,

Encroached into our homes

With constant reminder

That we didn’t measure up

We weren’t the right fit

We unravelled further

My teeth aren’t straight.

I was too scared to get my teeth taken out,and so the orthodontist couldn’t put braces on, and I look at my wedding photos, and regret that moment of teenage worry that means my mouth isn’t Colgate ad worthy.

My body feels weird.

Early puberty meant that since age 11 I’ve been this size, this weight, but yet I never quite got a grasp on it, and justas I started to feel comfortable, pregnancy attacked it, and now bits have got bigger, and bits have got smaller; unwelcome visitors in a place I’d just started to feel at home with.

But I cling onto the words that my Father God continually impresses upon me:

I am beautiful.

And that is not determined by merely the outside.

A 1900s girl,

without the trappings of adverts and angst,

described herself

based on her character

her skills

her attributes.

She was not to be described as merely the sum of her body parts

So on Saturday afternoon,

humbled with a clumsy hot chocolate wetting through my lap,

the girls and I wrote,

the beauty we saw in oneanother.

This is my real selfie:

The irony that the same teeth that repel me,

Are seen by another as “beautiful smile” 

And that what makes a difference

In the lives of others

What makes the permanent change

In communities

Is not the colour of my eyes

The outfit I wore last week

My waist size

But my personality

My gifts

My heart

So girl with photos

Cluttering my newsfeed

You won’t get deleted today

Because 

just like me

You just want to know you're beautiful. 

Natural

Last December

A seed was sown

A journey began

A new life started

As tiny Zella grew from plum to mango to watermelon then out

Another growth coincided

Changing me from the outside in

I remember the day

Two months short of my 13^th birthday

My mum, aunt and godmother

Gathered busily in the bathroom

Reading box instructions intently

It was my time

My coming of age:

My first relaxer.

 

For those not versed in afro-politics

And wondering why so much fuss

What the big deal is

Relaxers take those tight, dark, young girl curls

And stretch them into

Straight “big woman” tresses

I looked in the mirrored eyes of straight haired me

And I felt beautiful

Gone, now, were the days of sitting betweenmy mother or grandmothers legs

With comb tugging and pulling resistant curls in intricate plaits

I was now in control

And would have hair like all my other lighter-skinned friends

Who wash and go’d in the mornings

Dutifully I did my time in the hairdresser's seat

The 2, 3, 4 hour process

Of white thick cream

Waiting for the burn

But letting it soak in some more

so that it was super straight

And although I had

bad reactions

burns and bumps

patches that didn’t grow

and awful breakage that robbed half the back of my head of growth

like a dog returning to its vomit

so was my foolishness in going back

For me

It was the only way to be pretty

Sold a lie by

Beyonce

Oprah

Janet

Tyra

That to fit into culture

I had to tame my mane

I took out the essence of my hair

And lost more of the essence of myself

As pregnancy hormones dictates

I gave up the “creamy crack”

Letting the natural roots grow out

And as my baby grew inside of me

And I excitedly wondered about the beautiful curls

that would no doubt come

I looked at my straightened ends

And wondered if I’d ever be able to look them in the eye

How would I encourage them to be natural

To love their own body

To be comfortable in their own skin

To marvel at their God-given wonder

If I was suppressing my own?

When precious babe was revealed as precious girl

Faced with the female perils

Of low self esteem and insecurity

I realised that if I wanted her to be confident in just who she was

Born just perfect

Then I needed to show her me

Just the way I was born

Just perfect

There is this wonder

With afro hair

And its curls and twist

Braids and locks

That makes it unique

And daily I now embrace

And so it grows

The afro puff

The 4c curls

My old hidden now rediscovered healthy mane

Surprisingly more upkeep

Surprisingly educating

Surprisingly freeing

Are

When you look in the mirror at home,

You are fine and happy with what you see.

The problem is when you step outside of the home.

That's where the mirrors reflect something else.

Something other.

Gathered in a room of girls,

Silently competing,

"Fine and Happy" suddenly isn't cutting it.

That skirt you thought was fetch,

Their eyes squint at it, but then smile up at you betrayingly.

You look down,

And its newfound ugliness pierces through you.

And yet again,

That ugly deceiver rears its head

Oh no,

Not envy.

We are aware of envy's danger, it's hold, it's wrath.

We are wise to envy's game and the lies of the grass being greener.

So it sends, instead, the coy and looming face of its partner:

Comparison.

I remember the night,

Months previously,

As I did my far too regular trawl of Facebook,

I saw a mother describe how her bundle had finally cracked it and was getting to sleep at 6:30pm and sleeping through the night.

The words grabbed me.

My sane brain left, and my over achieving mind took over.

It started off being happy and pleased knowing the rest a mother needs,

The difficult season the early days of babies are,

And the relief her soul must feel.

Then like a snake it winded cunningly down another dark path,

One where I, once again, questioned my mothering skills:

"Why cant I get my child to sleep?!"

"What am I doing wrong?!"

"'Am I not a good mother?!"

The path weaves further, leading to an ugly pit:

"Why isn't Zella like that child?!"

That's where comparison grabs you,

To that place where even those you love,

Those most close,

most vulnerable,

Risk being attacked.

If I play that evil game,

With my precious babe at just 4 months young,

Then where will I be in 4 years or 14?!

How bruised and damaged will her self-esteem be??

For isn't the root cause of the too-skinny

Too-fat

Too-stressed

Too-overworked

Too-drugged up

Too-overachieving

Lying naked and stripped at the feet of comparison??

The saddest thing of all,

The true travesty of the situation,

Is that comparison steals your joy.

Steals your now.

Steals the things of beauty,

Laid before you in this moment.

At present, my favourite thing about Zella is the way she is with people.

Long did I imagine, hope and pray for a child who would not just be ok with others,

But revel in the wonder and fun of new people.

As our dear friend came over and sat on our sofa Sunday night

Zella played with her face

Smiled brightly

Burped responsively

Cuddled tightly

And brought more joy to an individual than I ever thought she could as such a young thing.

And as we travelled across the Atlantic

She took her spirit of woo

Of charm

Of love

At the airport check in desk

Sweet smiles to the security guards

Passengers apprehensive about her small life and potential cries

Were enveloped into her grin and giggles

And as each friend in Texas called her name

She reached arms swung wide open

Almost falling into their embrace

To stroke their face and nuzzle close

If I stand in the place of looking at others side-by-side to her,

I miss seeing her as she sits, just as she is, on her own, as her own individual.

I cannot and will not compare myself to another.

And I most certainly cannot and will not compare my child,

my kin, my babe, fruit of my womb,

To any other.

I will not buy into that silent lie,

That breeds bacteria of discontent.

She, just the way she is,

Like husband, just the way he is,

Like me, just the way I am,

Is more than enough.

Just right.

Complete.

These words will I speak into her,

Over her,

Through her,

With her.

"Zella, you are fine and happy, just the way you are."