Marie Romilus
Marie Romilus, MA, CPC, is a regular contributor to Living Crue. Marie reflects on topics of diversity and inclusion through personal storytelling. Her stories are her truth.
Should Beauty Define Me?
Who am I? I’m still trying to figure that out. It makes me sad sometimes because I realize for several years of my life I was just surviving, trying to morph into who I thought I needed to be or what society wanted me to be, or what others wanted me to be.
I realize that I was never really happy, though I thought I was. While learning who I am I’m also learning what happiness is. What is the true definition of happiness? What is the true feeling that comes with happiness?
As a Haitian, Black youth living in a small town on Cape Cod—and being one of the only Black girls in my class at the time—I had no idea who I should be. I knew that I did not want to be Black. I knew that I did not want to be Haitian. I didn’t want to be singled out anymore.
Why did my mom put my hair in this style? Poofs and braids with barrettes
and oils.
Why do I have to come to school with my jacket smelling like the breakfast my mom made that morning?
Everyone keeps talking about how Haitians dress—maybe I should focus on clothes that are not so bright.
These were the thoughts I often had.
“How do you get your hair to stay like that?”
“You know Bob Marley never washed his dreadlocks, do you wash your hair?”
These were some of the idiotic questions asked by people who I considered “friends.” There are so many things about my culture that just seemed so odd for a small town.
My skin color was desired only in the winter when others wished they could “stay tan” all year round. But my beauty was never desired because my nose, lips, and hair were not exotic enough for some and were a fetish for others.
In 5th grade on our week-long trip away, I remember all the girls getting together in one room and just laughing and giggling as kids do. One of the students pointed out that the only way to find me at night is when I smile. I heard this again over the years.
During volleyball practice in my Junior year of high school, I would often put my hair in a high ponytail and add a ponytail extension. I wanted the look of long hair. There I was, in the front, and as my teammate serves the ball it hits me in the back of the head. First, I noticed everyone laughing. I’m laughing along until I look down and see my ponytail on the floor. Then came the jokes, “OMG, did you cut it off a horse?” I would often stay silent or laugh with them. And then cry at home.
I think about those times when I wished I could be as beautiful as some of my classmates, the women on TV, and in magazines. I would ask God why he gave me these features. It surely didn’t help that I was chubby and constantly reminded of my weight by my Haitian family. I wasn’t beautiful anywhere or to anyone.
Dear God, can you please make me beautiful?
Everywhere I looked, there was no one else like me that I could compare myself to besides my siblings. Somehow I was able to see their beauty but not my own. Being the oldest, it was my responsibility to lift them the way my parents didn’t with me.
You’ve heard the saying, “the first baby is the test child?” Hi, I am that test child. It’s not like my parents didn’t love me or tell me I was beautiful when I would put on a dress, but our Haitian culture has a habit of focusing on the negatives so it forced us to strive for more instead of appreciating what we had. To be better was all I focused on:
Look better.
Be skinny.
Be smarter.
Be the best teammate.
Be the best child.
What happens when you don’t love yourself? For me, it made me vulnerable. Constantly working to please others so they would love me. Never saying, “No.” I believe that my lack of love for myself made me vulnerable. I would often connect sexual experiences with love, agreeing to encounters even when I really didn’t want to.
When I entered college, I swore that I would put more effort into fitting in. For the first time I was in a school with people who looked like me. So I thought I would be more accepted amongst “my kind.” This is when I learned “All skinfolk ain’t kinfolk.”
I was often told I speak “white” by some students who came from more inner-city locations. “You must be rich” for being from Cape Cod. I didn't understand the cultural differences between Black Americans and those from Caribbean and African countries.
God, why is this so hard!
Now based on my own experiences (yours may be different), I realized there was this unspoken judgment between Black Americans and Black Caribbean and African people. In America, you’re faced with several different cultures so although we can be of the same ethnicity, we still may not understand each other. I didn’t understand the issue until I dove deeper into educating myself on my culture and the culture of Black Americans. Kiana Cox and Christine Tamir word it perfectly in their article “Race Is Central to Identity for Black Americans and Affects How They Connect With Each Other” (Pew Research Center April 14, 2022). The knowledge of U.S. Black History is shared from birth by their families and experiences. My experiences are more centered around classism.
I was 5 years old the first time I saw someone who was not my same ethnicity. I had legally (I feel I have to make sure to say that) immigrated to the United States. Even then, that encounter was during the school day because once out of school I was home with my family.
Finding ways to be beautiful was a mission I felt I could never accomplish. I would change my hair, clothes, how I act around people, attempt to be perfect for my family, and even attempt to use chemicals to change my complexion.
In the world of philosophy, beauty is related to aesthetics. The aesthetics (objects that are appreciated for their beauty) are perceived by personal and cultural beliefs. I was spending years trying to appeal to those who didn’t see my beauty. Have you heard the saying “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Beauty is subjective.
In graduate school, while studying psychology, I was required to have a therapist. I dreaded doing therapy (I know, a therapist who doesn’t want to see a therapist doesn’t make sense but sometimes we always think we can cure ourselves). My years in therapy allowed me to dive deep into my childhood, into my inability to love myself. I learned that I had so much trauma that I attempted to push aside, that trauma made me unable to see how amazing I am.
Trauma centering around the abuse I experienced caused me to forget the power of my voice; that as a woman I have every right to say “No” without guilt or shame.
There is also power in positive affirmation. I was looking for others to label me as beautiful but would never tell myself how beautiful I was. Throughout therapy I began to appreciate the parts of me that are beautiful including my heritage and the strong female ancestors I come from.
My paternal grandmother, Polimen, was tall and had long arms that held me, swung me around, and comforted me. She was loving, would give her shoes off her feet to someone who had none. Her skin would feel like silk, she would smell like sweet sugar canes. She was so beautiful.
My maternal grandmother, Hozana, was a force to be reckoned with! She ran a whole village, prepping meals for her children and neighbors’ children, whoever needed it. She was a protector, and protected me at all cost. Her voice was amazing; her lullabies always had me safely falling asleep in her arms. I never questioned her love for me. She was so beautiful.
My mother, Analette, is a fighter, beating the odds every time someone tried to discourage her. Her voice is as beautiful as her mother’s. Her voice is also powerful; when she speaks everyone listens. Bearing 5 children and raising 2 nieces, she is devoted to us all, equally. And she smells like her favorite Chanel No.5 perfume, which is now one of my favorites. My mother is beyond beautiful.
I come from a line of powerful, smart, loving, ambitious Haitian women whose beauty is measured by who they are on the inside. However, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t beauty on the outside.
When my grandmother Hozana passed away, my grandfather spent the next 25 years of his life alone. He always said he would never be able to find a beauty like “his Hozana.” When he spoke about her beauty it wasn’t about the shape of her body. He spoke of her mind, her love, the way her eyes looked when he looked at her.
Now being a mother, I want to make sure my children are raised seeing beauty in every part of them. It also means I must acknowledge my beauty, my worth, and love myself truly.
I still battle with understanding who I am, but I decided to love who I am right now and welcome what the future me will bring to the table.
What I love about me:
My smile lights up the room, I’ve been told it brings happiness to others.
The gap between my top front teeth elevates my smile from ordinary to astounding.
My skin is a silky chocolate color, desired by many but gifted to me.
My compassion and patience are part of my Black girl magic.
They allow my heart to be so big, it has room to provide love to so many.
My hips can sway to the best Kompa music.
My hair, full of coiled curls, can be placed in the most amazing designs (which my ancestors used to communicate when their voices were stolen!)
Who am I?
I am Haitian
I am Black
A mother
A lover
A daughter
A sister
A niece
A friend
A mentor
A bad ass woman
And I am BEAUTIFUL.
Marie is the founder of Bel Lavi Life Coaching. Marie is a Haitian American Therapist whose focus is bringing more awareness of mental health to the Black and Brown Community. Marie specializes in couples therapy, family group therapy, and Rama-based therapy. Her Melanin is Powerful is a confidential support group for Black women ages 22-40, who may struggle with; family, relationship and other social stressors as well as educational, financial and other mental health concerns.
