Talyah Rawls
“What if, when I asked you who you are, I could peek directly inside you--right into your heart and soul--and see your answer?” I don’t want her poking around my soul, was what I immediately thought to myself when the show’s director abruptly posed this question to the entire cast. Her bluntness caught me off guard. Paralyzed in my seat, I feared that, if she were to look into my heart right at that moment, she would find the worst type of answer: none at all.
Identity is something I’ve struggled with, especially in high school. Doubts regarding my abilities and my value constantly clawed at my brain like cats clawing at a back door on a cold night. “Who do you think you are?” would whisper the little voice in my head every time I tried to shed myself of my insecurities, so I learned how to keep quiet, keep going, and keep the laugh on my face.
What’s more, the clear distinction between my dark brown skin and the creamy vanilla skin of my peers became clear to me at a very young age, producing a recurrent sense of isolation. Growing up in a predominantly white community, I constantly felt like I was floating between two worlds and didn’t know how to completely inhabit either.
I distinctly remember, during our Civil Rights unit from junior year, when my English teacher announced that our next topic would be the work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I buzzed in my seat with suppressed excitement and even a touch of haughtiness, feeling that I was, at last, all-knowing in such a subject. I’d recited his “I Have a Dream” speech so many times for my church that it felt like a part of me. My teacher then asked, “How many of you are familiar with any of his great works besides his I Have a Dream speech?” An uncomfortable silence filled the room as none of us could say we were. Such a revelation was enough to send me into a cramped bathroom stall, crying and ashamed, between classes. Growing up in a white community sometimes made me feel like I was missing out on important lessons-- how to be fluent in African American history and in my own ancestral history, how to take better care of my natural hair, how to dance with soul.
So it shouldn’t be surprising that, on that day in June, after the show’s director asked us who we were, I thought back to these things, sure that, if the director looked into my heart, she would find an unanswered question. Instead, she began to share her own flaws with us and explained who she was. She told us that she was a woman with a purpose in life, that she was dearly loved and made for a reason. She told us she was a masterpiece. Not in spite of all her flaws but including every single one of them-- a beautiful mixing pot of courage and anxiety and confidence and insecurity all joined together. Her message resonated so strongly with me. The concept that I was a masterpiece, not despite my insecurities or struggles with identity as an African American female but including them caused the tears to roll down my face before I knew what was happening.
That lesson helped me to realize that I have a right to be proud of myself. The fact that I am still learning what it means to be an African American female and still dealing with self-doubt doesn’t make me any less valuable.
Today, if someone were to ask me who I am, I’d eagerly respond that I am a masterpiece, an African American female who is strong, compassionate, insecure, way too hard on herself, dearly loved, and worth it. So, try it out. Ask me. I dare you. This time, I’m ready.