Even as an adult, I still have those days where I feel self-conscious. That’s just part of being a woman! I have embraced my petite frame and have grown quite fond of my appearance. I no longer want to change anything about my external physique. If anything, I’d rewind the clock to 1994 when I was sixteen years old. I’d close my bedroom door, turn on my CD player, and belt out the chorus to “She’s a Bad Mama Jama”—while I point at myself in the mirror.
Raegan L. Burden is an Atlanta-based writer and managing partner of Raegan / Robertson Productions, a media development and TV production company. Her professional endeavors reflect her passion for exploring contemporary / pop culture, women’s issues, politics, and religion. Raegan is an alumna of North Carolina A&T State University and holds a master’s degree from the University of Georgia.
A YOUNG WOMAN’S CRY
By Niyah Moore
I developed low self-esteem when I was a teenager. By the time I reached high school, I managed to make more enemies than friends. With my snotty attitude, I hid behind my own insecurities of being overweight. Once I made the cheerleading squad, I bonded with other girls on the team. I was happy that I made the squad, but I became my own worst enemy behind closed doors because I was heavier than they were.
Everyone had a boyfriend except for me. I made it my mission to have one, too. The friendlier I became with my male peers, the more I discovered it didn’t matter how pretty or how long my hair was. I was still a little thicker than they wanted me to be.
I pretended as if I wasn’t sad at a size 13. An older basketball player noticed my low spirits and told me I was one of the prettiest girls and if I lost a little weight I could have any boy I wanted. He gave me a spark of hope and I ran with it, drinking water and taking vitamins. I starved myself, ignoring the hunger pains, and after a while the smell of food made me sick. With the rigorous training from cheerleading practice and camp, the fat melted off.
When I returned to school for my junior year, I was completely different, wearing a size 7. I wasn’t the same chubby girl from the previous school year, and everyone noticed. I made out with more than a handful of popular cute jocks, but that sparked a new problem. I lost a lot of their attention almost as quickly as I gained it because they thought I was a tease.
The same boy who suggested I lose weight in the first place pursued me. He didn’t want to be in a relationship, but he wanted to have sex with me. Instead of saying no, I gave in. For the rest of the school year, he ignored me, but would climb in my window any time he wanted to. After every visit, and with him ignoring me in front of his friends, my self-esteem was lowered once again.
My friends were in serious relationships, and just the sight of them with their boyfriends made me upset. I went through a few more short-lived sexual relationships until a starting player on the varsity basketball team revealed he had a crush on me. I didn’t really like him at first because he wasn’t attractive looking. Everyone in the school knew him for his bad attitude, but they respected him.
Our relationship blossomed and we became inseparable. Once I was in college, a few fraternity brothers pursued me. Because of the attention I got from the new guy, I didn’t want to be with my boyfriend anymore. Every time I tried to break up with my boyfriend, he would verbally abuse me and blurt out he was cheating on me anyway. I think he knew I wanted to be with someone else. After hours of arguing, he would cry and beg me to stay. I would feel guilty, blaming his abuse on my own unstable feelings. I kept telling myself that he only wanted to love me and yet I wanted to be with another man.
After hearing the rumors about my boyfriend and other girls, I had enough. The final big fight left me with a concussion and a permanent thick scar on my upper lip where he busted it. We were officially over, but the ugly scar made me self-conscious, and it hurt to smile for a long time.
I confided in a male friend, vulnerable and in search of comfort. His kind words gave me the feeling that he could care for me in a way previous boys hadn’t, so I gave myself to him sexually. The very first time we had unprotected intercourse, I got pregnant. Ashamed and afraid, I faced my responsibility, dropped out of college at nineteen years old, and moved in with my child’s father. He was selfish and did very little to help me with the baby.
I slipped into a deep depression and had postpartum blues. My weight ballooned to the biggest I’d ever been, a size 18. We finally married and had a daughter after five years, but I couldn’t change him or my unhappiness.
My friends gave words of encouragement, but nothing seemed to lift my self-esteem. I tried diet pills to lose the weight, but couldn’t lose more than twenty pounds. I separated from my children’s father on a mutual agreement and dedicated my life to the only higher power I could count on: God.
After a nasty divorce and custody battle with my kids’ father, I could only make myself happy by doing what pleased me, and that was taking some time to find out what I liked and disliked without trying to impress others. I cut off all my old cheerleading friends and kept them at a distance because sometimes their words didn’t help me much. I needed to find my own way without doing what they wanted me to do. I started getting my hair and nails done. I finished beauty school and began writing as an outlet. I even went to a psychologist to help find what my underlying problems were. With the kids gone with their father every weekend, I finally had time for myself. For the first time in my life, I realized I loved myself too much to give myself to a man who didn’t care about me. There’s no comfort in sex without true love. I’m still learning that waiting for the right man takes patience.
I love the way I feel inside, and my self-esteem is the highest it has ever been. I still have yet to meet my Prince Charming, but when I need comfort I turn to my faith in God. Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the Lord—Psalm 27:14. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.—Proverbs 3:6.
Be encouraged and stay true to yourself. Do what makes you happy. As long as you try to please others before pleasing yourself, you will never be happy. Sometimes we as women lower our standards and open our hearts to the first man running, thinking we’re in love. To build ourselves as strong women, we need to stop thinking as if our minds are weak. Confidence comes from within. No one can give that to you.
Niyah Moore was born in Sacramento, California, where she currently resides. She is a single mother of two. She’s one of the contributors to the anthologies Mocha Chocolate: Taste a Piece of Ecstasy (March 2008), Chocolat Historie D’Amour (February 2009), and Seduction.
SELF-ESTEEM AND IDENTITY
By Dee Vazquez
I grew up in New York City. Queens. In the ’hood. When I was six, my parents divorced. I didn’t see a lot of my dad after that. Due to his situation, it was best for us not to see him: He was addicted to drugs. We didn’t understand why he left. Later we found out my mother didn’t want us identifying with a father who was a drug addict.
When my parents divorced, there was a real major shift in lifestyle. Before, he made sure that we were cultured: He’d take us to the city, to shows, to parades. He made sure that we understood life. When he left, money got really tight. Dance school, all that stuff, all the extras, had to be cut, because we couldn’t afford that dream. Everyone else had mothers and fathers. We just had our mother: single-parent household with five kids. We didn’t have much, but what she gave us was aspiration and hard work. She told us, “Just because you’re growing up in the projects doesn’t mean that you are the projects.”
Growing up, I never questioned anyone who was in any position of authority. I think this comes from my mother’s side. She’s Dominican, and she experienced the backlash of having her parents grow up during the time of the dictatorship, under Rafael Trujillo. He was like a Dominican Hitler; it was crazy. It was dangerous for them to speak out. My mother grew up being very quiet; my aunts did too. So I was always very quiet, very timid. I learned, “You don’t talk back to