The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl Read Online Free PDF

couldn’t even look at Allison in the backseat, already certain that she would go home to repeat this story to her older sister as they laughed at my expense. Of all the people to say that in front of, she was the worst one. But more than that, the confirmation from my grandfather that I was fat was a punch in the gut. Yet another reason why I didn’t fit in; or why the boys in my school looked past me; or why I’d never be considered as pretty as my friends.
    As we rode in silence on the car ride home and my eyes filled with tears, I looked out of my window into the night sky and made a silent plea for God to make me skinny. Then I took a bite of my cold slice of pizza and tried to chew quietly.
    Moments like that (and more that followed) should compel meto turn my life around, to starve myself, and to get myself in better physical shape. And for a time, I do. But then, I hit a wall. Sometimes it’s a wall that I’ll build for myself, and sometimes it’s one that life builds for me. I’ve been my ideal weight only twice: one time was by accident and the other was the result of not eating food for ten days.
    The first time I lost a noticeable (to everyone else but me) amount of weight was in high school, when I went to visit my relatives in Senegal after not having seen them for five years. (In case you missed the explanation of my name, my father is Senegalese.) I was fifteen and my parents sent my little brother, my little sister, and me off to Africa by ourselves, the first time we had ever traveled such a long distance without them. The morning after we arrived, my dad’s side of the family gathered around the center outdoor terrace of our family home and made a huge deal about seeing us. My aunts, in particular, rejoiced about how fat my sister and I were.
    “ Vous êtes pata ! ” one aunt exclaimed. (Translation: “You guys are fat.”)
    “ Vous mangez bien la-bas ,” another aunt commented, laughing. (Translation: “You girls are eating well over there.”)
    This was both jarring and embarrassing.
    Still, I made no conscious effort to reverse my weight. It was only a combination of diarrhea, the three-meal “eat what you can” plan, a lack of snacks, rigorous exercise (otherwise known as walking in the heat), and going clubbing at night (the clubbing age limit was sixteen) that effected a change I had no willpower to make on my own. Oh, and the fact that I had become a pescatarian just the year before, much to the confusion of my cousins, worked miracles.
    “You don’t eat meat . . . on purpose?” my older cousin asked.
    “Yeah. Something I heard on the radio about how meat is processed and manufactured.”
    “But, that’s the U.S. We don’t do that here. You can eat meat made in Senegal. It’s natural. It’s halal,” he tried to persuade me.
    “No, thanks. I’m good.”
    “I wish we could afford to not eat something by choice,” he mused.
    When I came back to the States at the end of summer, I had a “cute shape” (my mother’s words), having finally gotten rid of the baby fat that refused to grow the fuck up and move out of my body. My friends noticed the change. My new nickname was “skinny bitch.” It was the best compliment I ever could have received and allowed me a new confidence. Yet just as I started to grow accustomed to my skinny curves, college and the Sophomore Twenty happened.
    The second time in life that I lost a significant amount of weight, I was aided by being broke in New York. I had already lost a significant amount just by trying to survive with two part-time jobs in the city, but I still wasn’t satisfied with my appearance. My younger siblings can attest to the fact that I’ve wanted a six-pack since I was in the sixth grade. I’m sure I could attribute this body image must-have to countless music videos featuring the perfect midriffs of TLC, Aaliyah, Destiny’s Child, and Mya. Also, the fact that midriffs were in style in middle school, in my opinion