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

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

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