By Gloria Oladipo
This Valentine’s Day, I will wake up and eat breakfast; I will go to my class, come home, attend some meetings, and see a movie with my other single, femme friends. But one thing I refuse to do on this day is to indulge my internalized misogynoir-influenced thoughts that spring up regarding my lack of a relationship.
I don’t really want a boyfriend. I have so much healing and self-love to bathe myself in, so much self-investigation to do before I devote any significant attention to anyone else. But despite my clarity on this, as Valentine Day rolls around I still have this lingering feeling that I need to be with a partner. My self-worth, social status, and beauty is directly viewed through the filter of my relationship status.
The thoughts sound like my mother warning me to pray religiously for a future husband. The thoughts sound like the nosy questions of family members and friends asking me why I haven’t met a man yet. Since childhood, I have been stuck in limbo—being told that my sexual purity was essential, that I should be wary of men who aren’t family members, while also being told to focus my energy on finding a mate. In the face of these expectations, when you are continually not in a relationship, it is too easy to find fault in yourself.
After the typical feelings of self-doubt and critique (“I am ugly,” “I am unlovable”), other beliefs based in misogynoir tend to flood my brain. I look at my romantic history and can’t help but think that the anomalous factor that is guaranteeing singleness is being a Black woman. I think back to the statistics expressing that Black women are the least desirable group when it comes to dating. I think about how we, Black women, walk the line of being regarded as ugly and constantly masculinized while also being the source of racial fetishization. How they, those who indulge and produce narratives of misogynoir, call us “gorilla” and misgender us as “male” while also asking if we will twerk for them. They call us an “ape in heels” and harass us before stealing our hairstyles straight from our scalps. They use police against us as their personal bodyguards and kill us at inordinate rates before literally trying to be us.
White people (and others) in America view Black women as nothing more than a costume, a convenient dumping ground for everyone else’s anger (while never allowing us to express our own), and a shitty punchline at white supremacy’s joke.
Various environments, both growing up and now, only confirmed my idea that being a Black woman in America would mean a partnerless life. In grade school, middle school, and high school, I missed many romantic milestones—being asked out on a date, having a first boyfriend—that seemed to come easy to my non-Black peers. A friend of mine in 9th grade gladly reminded me that he had found every girl in our grade attractive except for me (“I wonder why that is?” he pondered aloud).
Even in college, even as I have gained more confidence and found myself in an environment with slightly more Black people, I still find the same concept of Black women being inherently inferior playing out in front of me. I have been constantly asked by both my Black and non-Black peers to arbitrate, without permission or forewarning, whether or not their racial preferences are problematic (“But, what if someone just doesn’t like Black women?”). I constantly see parades of Black men fawning over white women and light skinned Black girls. When I point out the reality of how eurocentrism can absolutely influence who we find “attractive,” I am called “bitter” and “jealous,” reduced to the trope of the angry Black woman who is too enraged to be found attractive.
The reality is that misogynoir, both structurally and interpersonally, is alive and well. Its impact is not limited to men finding Black women unattractive or unsuitable for sustained relationships, but the way that our world defines worth. This world is built on defining Black women as subordinate. In the face of this truth, I have done exactly what the intersections of white supremacy and sexism want of me. I have tried to assimilate into white beauty norms through straightening my hair and attempts to lighten my skin. I have tried to shrink my personality so that it does not feel threatening to the pathetic people I thought I needed to impress. I have lowered my standards and blamed myself whenever I was ghosted or disrespected.
Fuck all of that. As I tried to contort myself and my values for others, I continually found that I was losing a piece of myself and what truly mattered to me. Why was I shopping for personalities to match what I thought people wanted? Why was I already assuming that no one would want to invest in me or find out my interests and values the same way that I did for others? This lost sense of self ultimately cultivated in an eating disorder that almost took everything from me. When I finally a commitment towards my recovering from that, it also meant being kinder to myself and trying to recognize my value always.
I refuse to blame myself for the inability of others to see the many gifts I have to offer. I will no longer be dimming my light for anyone who is afraid of this Black Girl Magic. My years of pandering to those who continue to accept and perpetuate narratives of misogynoir are over, even if it means being seen as divisive in a toxic, patriarchal version of the Black community. This is less so a pledge of self-love, and instead a public commitment to stop bargaining with my values in a relationship out of fear that I will never genuinely and consistently be wanted.
This Valentine’s Day, I will do my daily routine like I normally would do. I will be gentle and respectful with my thoughts even if they are infused with the remnants of self-hatred that I have been spoon-fed all my life. I will try and recognize my worth even if others do not.
I will refuse to shame myself for not following the racialized, gender roles that were laid out for me. I will redefine what “love” looks like and find gratitude for the people and spaces that make me feel cherished. I will practice these things and other techniques of self-acceptance before I become consumed in the misogynoir that can trap all Black women everywhere.
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Gloria Oladipo is Black woman who is a sophomore at Cornell University and permanent resident of Chicago, IL. She can be found via email at gaoladipo@gmail.com and on Instagram @glorels.
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