When Sage was 6, one of her closest friends had a party at American Girl Place. Fourteen little Black girls showed up in a limo, beautiful dresses, shiny shoes, ruffled socks, big bows in their hair. Like God had dropped little Angels on Chicago and Michigan Ave.
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They pranced in the store, giggling with their friends, shopping for their dolls, no different than the 100 plus other girls dressed up and happy, except they were Black.
All of them. And their mamas were, too.
They sat at the largest table in the cafe. And were catered to, like the other girls there, eating and celebrating, except they were Black.
Because I dance to the rhythm of racial ambiguity around midwestern white people, because Sage is a stunning milk chocolate brown, people often don’t think she’s my daughter. Even though we look ridiculously alike.
So I heard things that day. Things I know were said because these girls were Black.
I heard things when I lagged behind the group, things like:
“I’ve never seen such cute ones.”
“I just want to pet them”
“I’m gonna take their pictures”
Many times, when I’ve walked downtown with my children, random people have touched their curls. Reached to caress their skin. Complimented me on “dressing” them so well.
When I watched Trump grab that beautiful girl. Kiss her as she pulled away. Heard him compliment her parents on the “good job” they were doing because she was pretty (what else could he be judging, not knowing her at all) it took me back to that day at American Girl.
Watching people ogle at our daughters because they were lovely and well behaved. Because for some disgusting reason, that is not the expectation.
Understanding that their objectification began then and there. Their value based on their beauty and that any privileged person felt they had a right to access it. To touch it. Pet it. Hold it. Kiss it.
Because what are they but Black girls, born to Black men and women and we all know how valued we are, right?
As a mother to Black and Brown children, the pain is constant. It is an ache that my son will be considered a man and a threat before he even knows what manhood is. And my daughters will be objectified, sexualized and demeaned because this country actually has a presidential candidate that feels he can grab them by the p***y.
Leslé Honoré is a Blaxican Poet, Mother, Freedom Fighter and Spirit Writer. She believes HBCUs, Tacos and Gumbo without kale can save the world. You can follow her on Facebook @Leslé Honoré and on Twitter @Lesle_honore.
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