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Black girls are awesome, right? We talk about this all the time. We’re fierce, funky, and fly. We make trends, we transcend. You go to any ‘hood in America and you can find sisters who are no less stunning than the Halle Berrys and Kelly Rowlands on TV. We’re dope. In Brooklyn, I am constantly surrounded by stunning, accomplished, Black magic women. And I feel very much empowered as a part of this tribe. Glamazon women. Urban warriors. Dust daughters.

But I can’t lie: it’s some days where I just feel like I’m not enough.

There’s a lot of honeydips in Gotham, y’all. And they’re brilliant and talented and alla that stuff. I’m confident about my looks and my smarts (most days; we all fall short of the glory sometimes). I got a nice lil’ package going for me. But in Black Girl Land . . . that makes me average.

I go to Ft. Greene for a shindig and most of the women there look just like me (that’s another issue for another day). My posse is bold and bad and making all types of moves. And it isn’t at all that I need to be surrounded by marginal women to shine (or that I would want to do such a thing). But I do have vulnerable moments of simply not feeling beautiful, fly, smart enough. Feeling like I’m just one of many.

The rampant dopeness has complicated my love life a bit. There’s a touch of competitiveness that I have with other women that I resent oh so much. Social Darwinism. Race to cuddle time. Sometimes, I feel like I’m making an elevator pitch with a brother; if I don’t reveal all my awesome right away, some other clever and beautiful woman will beat me to the punch. I think I’m an all-the-way awesome lover/partner, but surely some of these other women can claim the same.

So while I appreciate being born on to a winning team, I just can’t help but to feel like I gotta work real hard to have a starting position. Sisters set the bar real high. I’m willing to climb . . . it’s just hard sometimes.

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