As I was scrolling through my Instagram feed this morning, procrastinating about getting up as long as I possibly could, I came across a number of posts reminding Marchers from the recent Women’s March Anniversary that if their Feminism isn’t Intersectional Feminism, it isn’t Feminism at all. I agree with this concept, wholeheartedly.
When I think “bar pick up”, this is the scenario that plays in my head:
Scene: Poorly lit, slightly grungy bar, somewhere downtown. Trendy house music booms at a level that reverberates through your chest, while lasers create a light-show effect overhead. At the bar, a vision in red sits cross-legged, ebony hair pushed to one side, stirring her radioactively-pink drink with a straw. A well dressed man with a confident swagger approaches, takes the seat adjacent to her and looks her dead in the eye. He speaks:
As is made clear in the photo above, I have skin issues. When I was in my teens, I prayed for the day when I would finally be finished with puberty and my skin would be healthy, flawless, ivory, “woman’s” skin. Now nearly 22 years of age, I’ve come to terms with biology: something about my ancestry, skin care regimen, hormones, etc. creates blemishes on my face. End of story. I have also been blessed with panda-esque dark circles and dark, thick eyebrows that grow at an alarming rate.