My name is Ashley; Ash for short around this time. I’m between the ages of 4 and 17. The 29-year-old Ashley would rather not be bothered by you. Being a scholar of Black studies where she spends countless hours reading, studying, and sorting through Black pain and Black positivness, she is weary. When she sees you, she sees a mountain of theories, articles, and books from scholars such as bell hooks (“Madonna: Soul Sista or Plantation Mistress”), Edward Said (Orientalism), David Mariott (“On Racial Fetishism”), and Frantz Fanon (The Wretched of the Earth). After the semester she’s had, the truth is she tired.
But the little girl within her (me) is both intrigued and confused by you.
Contrigued, I supposed.
What I’m contrigued by is how you thought you could just assume the identity and experience as a Black woman without any connection to…
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