To be or not to be. To be born. To be born then defined by titles filled with hidden oppression in its seems. To be born black and to be fully seen. To be born not only black but a black girl, a little black girl who acts like a little black boy. 

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Oh, she’s just a tomboy. 

I remember when I used to dress like that, she’ll grow out of it. 

Do you like dolls? 

Sit with your legs crossed instead, it’s more ladylike. 

Do you like girls? 

Why don’t you shave your underarms or legs? 

All those blisters on your hands, all those scars on your legs, just like a little boy. 

Wear a dress for once. Would it kill you to dress like a girl? 

Oh.. you’re just a tomboy, you always have been. 

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I was diminished. Trapped inside a box with molten lava for a lock. 

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She grew up as an only child but only for a short while. Four years down the line a little black boy came into her life, then there were three. Eventually, five. The firstborn, the first daughter, granddaughter, niece, big sister, big cousin. The daughter that preferred toy guitars over toy dolls. The granddaughter who ran outside to climb trees just to fall out of them, instead of staying in to watch nana cook or do her makeup. The niece that was friends with all the boys in the neighborhood, the one among the majority as they ripped and ran all through the streets, skateboarding, flipping, exploring. The big sister who would rather stay in with you to play favorite shared consoles. The big cousin out of the few that would rather hang out with you, watching old movies and talking about space.

 

All the things that anyone else could do, but emphasized as peculiar because it was all I wanted to. 

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The phase, they called it. The basketball shorts and sneakers. The “no curls, no color, no beads or barrettes” in my hair anymore. The all-black attire for the majority of high school. The “if my hair isn't done the way I liked it, I’ll wear a beanie until then.” The stay in the house “I don’t really have that many friends.” The many phases of my personality that everyone assumed I would one day grow out of. The hoodies and the sweatpants. The uncomfortability of tight clothes, afraid a boy or man would stare at me for too long, or that my friends would see me differently if I walked in with anything other than a flat sole to compliment the pavement. If I came to the party with any telling characteristic other than the usual. If who I had been considered as for so long, fantastically - barely - morphed into someone new. 

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Because once labeled, change, to them, seemed unethical. 

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It was inevitable. The posture in which she sat. The speculation of where her heart was at. The invasion of privacy. The societal norms of how to act, the pressure, the depression, the failure to appreciate herself. The wonder of “Why couldn’t I be born as something else” Rather than why can’t she be embraced as who she is, and not judged on who she resembled. 

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I didn't want to be anyone at times.

 

I wanted to be myself, and when I was ready to truly be who I deemed perfect, there was this fright that exploded in my chest and bloomed into an ideology that I have to fit in these societal norms like the rest. Or else be outcasted by and from those I cared about. I was afraid. Frightened and scared. Scared that she wouldn't love me anymore. As if she would only be my mother and not my friend like she had been for so long. Only in my life because she gave it to me. Only in my world because she helped shape me. Yet she would be ashamed of me. I was afraid she wouldn't love me like I loved her all my life. Scared that they would all see me differently, that they would see the person who they always wanted me to be from the start. “I was right about her all along.” Yet you weren't. 

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I never needed or wanted validation. I was only afraid of invalidation. In the end, unknowingly, it was all those things she said to me inadvertently. How I felt them without the proper structure needed be. How I knew, even through the ups and downs, she always stood by my side whether she understood why. 

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And that I would always be safe. 

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You don’t have to wear a dress if you don’t want to. 

She dresses herself in what’s comfortable. 

Of course, if those are the toys you want, I’ll buy them for you. 

She’s different and I love that about her. 

Don’t ever be afraid to tell me how you feel. 

You’re not like other girls and that’s okay. I like it that way.

 

I love you because you’re you.