My Body is Not Your Mount Everest

Written by Sydney, Writer

The sexualization of young black girls is a harsh reality that forces them to mature more quickly, and it’s a reality that I lived for many years. Growing up in a black family, especially as a black girl, my body was constantly scrutinized over.

Thick black girl bodies are often regarded as a bargaining chip that could get a girl anything she wanted, even if she couldn’t handle it, even if she didn’t know what it referred to. 

And when I was growing up, adults were always concerned with how I was using my bargaining chip. The quiet and not so quiet whispers from loved ones and strangers echo in my ears saying:

“Girl you don’t know what to do with all that.”

Well, I’m 10 years old, so...you’re right, I don’t...

“Girl you better not get no bigger or you’ll lose your shape.”

Not really trynna keep it actually. 

“Girl give me some of these hips”

Why yes, please, please take them.

“Girl yo daddy ain’t gonna be able to keep them off you.”

Weird.

Others’ curiosity about what I would do with my thick body when I grew up was invasive, weird, and truly demeaning. They voiced their concern for my body’s usage so frequently, it was as if I had won the lottery and kept getting asked: “What are you gonna do with the money?”

To be sexualized before I ever knew about sex was confusing to my heart. It was like every grown up around me could see where my thick body would lead me, but never explained the destination to me. Instead, I was ordered to downsize – make myself less.

I was self-conscious early on about how to move through the world with my thick body. At 10, my hips and breasts came in faster than I could understand what was happening. Not looking like anyone else in my class, I was embarrassed by the fleshy saddlebags that protruded from each side of me. 

I remember, very distinctly, each night I would sleep on my sides, never my back or stomach – hoping that the weight of my body against my mattress could flatten my hips by the morning. 

Men see my thighs, hips, and breasts as a challenge they’d like to conquer – I’m their Mount Everest. My body is noticeable. It’s the first thing they see. They’re struck so hard by my physicality that my inner beauty is hardly noticed, rarely ever considered. 

Sometimes it seems like no matter how hard I work on my personal growth, here come my hips and breasts to steal the show – making the first impression in people’s minds. And don’t get me wrong, being thick at age 24 in 2021 is lit.

But the scars of being thick at age 10, and of having to carry around other’s paranoia about my body remain etched in my psyche. Little did I know, this paranoia would transfer to my adult life, making me question anyone who dares to notice my body.

How does a 10-year-old cope with being “too much” of anything? How was I to carry my thick body when I had no idea what implications being thick even had? Did I have to be a ten-year-old, get good grades, and watch out for the perverted glances that came my way?

Having a young, thick, black body was a developmental trauma that no one protected me from – and it’s a trauma that young, black girls grow up with every day. Being a black girl isn’t a monolith. We come in many shapes and sizes. Being young, thick, black, and a girl should warrant freedom to shine, not dim. Not twist. Not conform.

I’ve come to appreciate my thick, black body as an adult. It takes up space. It refuses to be small, which encourages me never to act small. It takes mindful walks. It laughs with my best friend. It makes TikToks with my younger sisters. It helps my parents around the house. It reads books. And it writes these truthful words.

To the men of 2021: My body is not your Mount Everest. It’s nothing for you to feel challenged by, be curious about, or explore for any perverse reason.

And to the parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, teachers, mentors of young, thick, black girls: hold them tight. Don’t squeeze them. Don’t shrink them. Just...hold them tight.