This is a summoning of bodies: all shapes, sizes and shades to unite in their pride, and wear their skin like the gift it is.
My Skin literally matters. It matters because it’s the largest organ on my body. Because it’s my exterior. It’s been stretched, sunburnt and covered in glitter. It’s the first thing you notice about me. My skin is dark brown, but if you asked someone they would say it’s black. My blackness is my largest assumed ‘accessory.’ Not my gender, religion or wealth. Because of it, I’ve experienced countless misconceptions from people— neck rolls and gratuitous gestures, overt southern dialects superimposed onto my own voice, perceived “ghetto-ness.” I laugh it off because it’s seemingly harmless, but when we think about where this originates it’s actually poisonous. Being black in America is a unique experience. All people have a unique American experience, but I can’t speak for all people. I can only speak from my unique experience as a black woman. The “African-American” myths that cloud non-black people's judgment are taken from the worst part of our struggle and paraded as fact. I could write this essay trying to debunk “black-on-black crime” and fill it with pleading persuasive prose, but I’d rather just tell you what I know.