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“I had only one desire: to dismember it. To see of what it was made, to discover the dearness, to find the beauty, the desirability that had escaped me, but apparently only me.”
Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye
The first person in the entire world that I remember disliking with a fervor that bordered obsession was S.B. She was extremely popular, blonde, and smiley. All of the boys liked her. She never said a word to me — I don’t even think she knew me. But I knew her.
I had to. She was in every conversation. She was every teacher’s favorite. People thought she was extraordinarily sweet, which she very well might have been.
I hated her. I hated the way people looked at her. The way we were all clearly supposed to think she was beautiful and brilliant. I hated the way her hair moved, the way her clothes were always new.
Now I recognize my dislike as the natural jealousy of a middle schooler, but I maintain that there was a racialized aspect of my dislike. She existed as the representation of Girl Possible— standards that I, a black girl, could never meet. I was not popular. I would never be blonde (at least not in the way that wouldn’t invite criticism). Even the boys whose skin was as dark as mine found me unpalatable and would cry to anyone with…
