As Black History Month kicks off, Natalie Lee of @stylemesunday shares her own story of coming to terms with her Black identity. Here, she tells us why Black history is something we need to talk about every day, not just during this month...

“From the curl in my hair to the curve at the base of my spine, from the blood of my ancestors in my veins to the delicious tone of my skin. I have learned that my Blackness isn’t something to hide or to shy away from. I love being Black, and my favourite thing is walking around with the confidence and the knowledge that my Blackness has risen despite struggle and adversity, which makes it even more precious.”

An extract written by me for a book called Millennial Black by Sophie Williams. It was in answer to the question: What do you love about being black? This, however, is just a drop in the ocean about my thoughts on being black.  

Born to a white/Irish mother and black Caribbean father, I was shunned by my maternal grandparents at birth for the colour of my skin, until meeting them for the first time aged 10 accidentally at my uncle’s house. This shaky foundation was possibly the origin of my sense of shame around my blackness. When you are born with shame as a fundamental part of your core, of who you are, everything that comes after lays on an unstable foundation. Wholeness and belonging - basic human grounding - are mythical creatures to us. 

When I was a little girl I remember the yearning of wanting to be white. I had a picture of Marilyn Monroe up on my wall. I read books about her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the planet. I wanted to be her, I wanted to look like her. I would have licked her actual face had she been in front of me instead of these shiny posters. I deeply hated my afro hair. It wasn’t even ringlet-y like most other mixed-race girls. It was a full on hard-to-comb, difficult-to-look-after, always-looking-a-mess - ‘fro, because there was no one around to teach or tell me otherwise. I started having it chemically straightened from the age of 7 until I was in my thirties.

I hated being black. I feel slightly embarrassed saying that out loud, but I did. It was just me and mum mostly growing up, I went to catholic schools which were 97% white and I had little contact with my black father and his family. Mum was the second most beautiful woman in the world to me (besides Marilyn) and had gorgeous soft bouncy hair and a glamorous wardrobe to match. I couldn’t see how I would grow up and be anywhere near as beautiful as the women I looked up to. 

Being black looked hard, being black wasn’t something you aspired to, black people weren’t heralded as beautiful on the covers of my Just Seventeen magazine.  They weren’t portrayed as rich, famous or powerful. I remember being told that I was ‘alright because I wasn’t really black’ so they were happy to continue to be friends with me. This fed the narrative I already felt about my blackness. I felt grateful that I was being allowed in, kind of accepted but not fully.  

There’s some crazy kind of mirror that having children puts in your face. If I had grown up rejecting a part of myself, was I was rejecting a part of them too? A beautiful, integral, brilliant side of us that I had tried for too many years to ignore, push down and turn away from.

I was suddenly faced with the reality that I really didn’t like myself. There was a guttural sense of shame, and I needed to address that. I started with the thing I had had the most problematic relationship with, my hair. Instead of straightening it, I had a curly perm to try and get it to resemble my natural hair somewhat, whilst still being ‘manageable’. However, the years of relaxing and chemically altering my hair were taking their toll and my hair was starting to fall out. Eventually I got all the chemicals cut out, I had a couple of inches of growth and went short about 8 years ago. At first it was a shock, I didn’t feel feminine and didn’t feel like I was a desirable anymore (that’s a whole other article), but it slowly started to grow and I started to even like it. It was me. Finally I felt like I was being true to myself, and that overly used buzz word - authentic. Gradually my blackness was being praised in the world around me too. It was becoming ‘cool’ to be black. I say this with a pinch of salt, obviously I’m aware that black people are still being killed because of the colour of their skin, and being discriminated against in all areas of life. Black features are heralded on white bodies more than any others, and black creators are frequently stolen from and uncredited. So, blackness isn’t really ‘cool’ for black people. 

It was the reflection of my children that forced me to look deeper within at my own internal struggle with my blackness and the fact that I was seeing and educating myself with prominent, educated, successful and talented black voices. People who inspired me every single day, which I never had growing up. But I was slowly finding a new sense of belonging and acceptance within myself for the first time, which felt great. 

I’ve started leaning into my blackness more and more, instead of pushing it away or pretending that race isn’t really an issue for me. I started becoming part of groups that are for black women, whereas before I’d never felt the need. Seeking out black mentors and a therapist, people who understand me and the black perspective - has helped me feel more settled. Finally, finally, I can honestly say that today as I sit here writing this I am proud to be black, I am happy about the delicious rich colour of my skin and I adore my big afro hair. I never ever want my girls, or any child for that matter, to feel ashamed of who they are and I hope that I encourage and inspire others to be vulnerable and open about their battles. It is only by being honest and vocal now and every day - not just during Black History Month - that we have a hope at healing the wounds we’ve had impressed on us by society.