Personal Narrative: Being A Dark Skin Black Girl

Most childhood stories are all about the enjoyment of going to Disney World or spending the summer with the new kid in town. Recounting and reminiscing as if they are the real life Phineas and Ferb. However have you heard of an unhappy or despondent childhood? Known a friend who was cheerful and radiant, but wondered if that was the real person? Being a dark skin black girl, I could relate.

During the middle school days of my childhood, trying to fit in was a major key. The first weeks of school were considered a red carpet event. Every kid in each grade knew to wear their best outfits they have gotten over the summer. The best Jordan’s, Converse, skin tight jeans, and shirts that would show just a little cleavage. If you was caught dead wearing

a Spider-Man T-shirt or a Hello Kitty book bag, consider yourself a joke. Nonetheless, if you were a female that still wore an A-Cup bra, you were a joke also. Being in the eighth grade, everyone considered themselves as the “top dogs” of the school. Anyone in sixth or seventh grade was known as babies and did not matter.
My eighth grade year was not so bad.

All the students knew who I was, I was friends with everyone, and I had astounding grades. However, there was one internal conflict that I faced that no one from school knew about. It was being a dark skin black girl. I never noticed the “darkness” of my skin tone until my peers started making jokes and expected that I would laugh along. These jokes did not start at the very beginning of my eight grade year. They all started in-between September and October. The entire student body was a lot more comfortable with each other being around. The countenance and names were all known by this

time.
During a windy day of fall, an interesting school day approached. My eyes opened as I heard the sound of my iPod Touch alarm going off. As drowsy as I was, I managed to reach and turn the alarm off. The dim screen of my iPod showed that time was 5:45 in the morning. Taking about five minutes, I finally got up to start my day. It was in the middle of the week, my favorite day. Wednesday. Not too early in the week and almost close to the weekend. Who would not love Wednesdays? After getting fresh and cleaned, I waited for my bus to arrive near the front door. My large, rowdy bus comes every morning at 6:20 impatiently waiting for my neighbors and I to board. The elderly, hostile bus driver opened the door to let us in. Sitting on the raggedy bus seat, I grabbed my earphones to prepare for this hour long drive to school.
The cool breeze whipped around my body as I step off the steps of the bus.

We finally arrived at the middle school, greeting Mr. Williams. All of the middle school students who ride the bus have to sit in the gym until the first bell rings. As I got to the gym door, pulling it open, I saw dozens and dozens of kids sitting on the red bleachers. Everyone was laughing, running around, and playing music from their phones. I saw one of my best friends, Yolanda, sitting down on the bleachers with her other friends. The girls she hangs with, I am not actually cool with. Most of them, such as Francesca and Maliah, are over the top drama queens. Not my cup of tea. Anyhow, I sat by Yolanda and waited around 15 minutes until the bell rang. All of the kids rushed out the door into the school building. In the school, there are different halls set up for each grade. Sixth grade has their own, seventh has their own, and eight grade has their own. As Yolanda and I got to our hall, we waited in line to get our breakfast. The lunch ladies set up in each hall with a cart to give out breakfast to each student. After we got our breakfast, we headed to our homerooms. Unfortunately, Yolanda and I have different homerooms. So we say goodbye to each other until our other classes. I enter Mr. Larkins class, my homeroom, and sit in my

seat.
Mr. Larkins teaches Social Studies for the eighth graders. We are currently on Unit 9 about the Civil Rights. Mr. Larkins is a tall, dark skin black man. Not much of a Morris Chestnut type of man, but a much resembled Taye Diggs type of man. Honestly, a lot of females in my other classes admired him. Mr. Larkins was not even close to the word “old” he looked and very much acted young. I am also pretty certain that the students were not the only ones who drooled over him.
Meanwhile, a few minutes passed by while Mr. Larkins presented the class with a PowerPoint. He gave us a break to work on the worksheets that came along with the presentation. The effortless, quick lesson was nothing but simple terms that related to Martin Luther King, Jr.