My mother was my first model of femininity. I’d watch as she’d meticulously fix her hair and makeup before going out, and I’d swipe copies of her Essence magazines to soak up visions of Black beauty . My mom complimented me about everything — in her eyes, I was the smartest, kindest, most talented child. At school, I was routinely teased for my knobby knees and ugly glasses. But when kids told me that my skin was “the colour of poop” and when they laughed at the way my thick braids stuck up and out from the sides of my head, I knew that some of this teasing was more than just kids being kids. So my mother amped things up — she never let me leave the house without knowing she thought I was gorgeous. Those compliments weren’t meant to raise me above anyone else, but instead to serve as armour when the outside world tried to chip away at my self-esteem. My Blackness seemed at odds with the definition of beauty held by those around me, and while the outside world affirmed that, my mother’s words affirmed me. I truly felt protected by them.