What Volume is Your Self-Love?
What volume is your self love? Do you blast it on high, with its bass vibrating through your fingertips? Or is it a muted melody, softly accompanying each step? Perhaps its somewhere in between. Perhaps it is a song you haven’t written yet, or one with an open beat and unrefined lyrics. For me, I’m not quite sure.
I start and end my days on Instagram. I’m wired this way I think. The curiosity of what my friends and celebrities (imagined friends) are up to are a delicious way to begin my mornings and round out my day. Laying in bed, scrolling past curated content and organic candids makes me feel, well, connected. I must admit, however, that the petty jumps out every once in a while, and adulterated joy oozes out of stooped posts- you know the ones I’m talking about. The ones you screenshot and send to friends, those that make you guffaw, and start brewing a strong pot of metaphorical tea. Ah, but I digress.
My Instagram feed, much like my other social networks, does its job. It feeds me. It provides the fodder of social cues and norms. It tells me what is acceptable, and what falls outside the curve. Social media is the stage in which we perform. Artfully constructed images of joy with the appropriate caption. Blessed and highly favored of course. Golden hour selfies telling us that drinking enough water and minding your own business is how we secure the bag. The barometer of hashtags and trending topics is a beautifully constructed platform to tell the world your message- a specific message. Tell the people in and outside your circle that you’re flourishing. It’s become important to tell them that you’re not ok – you’re better than ok, your cup of self love is overflowing.
Yet, among the traffic throughout my feed, these posts seem… artificial, self-aggrandizing in a way. I look at images of constructed self-acceptance, you know the ones, where a friend poses as if they are a work of art. The caption tells the audience that this is a work of art, not a work in progress. But that same friend conceals bruised under eyes from sleepless nights. She paints her face to hide the absence of male approval etched into her brow. She turns the volume on high, her self love captured in the #nomakeupselfie drowns out the diminutive comments on her natural hair. I think about myself. What about me? How often do I perfect the arch of my #regrown brows and highlight my cheeks to detract from the swell of insecurities at my fingertips?
I look best at 180 degree angles. There's something about a good head tilt that brings out my features. I know to pose in front of good lighting, to keep my eyes wide and mouth closed. I know how to curate a good selfie, and if I'm lucky, a great one at that. This much coveted skill is a difficult one to present on a CV, much less in conversation. Vanity does not make one a social butterfly. Yet, in the age of social media, the more beautifully staged pictures of myself I post, the more affirmations and encouragements I receive.
With each head tilt and #smize, I wonder what type of person I must look like, when you scroll past my face on your feed. I want to come across as ethereal and confident, bold yet humble, beautiful and brilliant, but I recognize the limitations of a single photograph. I'll post a picture with a carefully selected caption. Some days I'm driven by the musicality of the Billboard Hot 100, an obscure reference to one of my favorite writers, or the gems within my Twitter feed. I want to be seen, but only in the ways I'll let you do so. I write, produce, direct, and edit myself. I perform only this constructed version of me.
Out of necessity, I think, I cultivated this skill. I had to mold a certain facade of myself. Leaning in to my attractiveness was/is often met with vitriol. Accusations of being full of myself, vapid, self-absorbed, vain and the like. Multiracial identity, for me at least, means navigating social commentary on what I am, and an ambiguous phenotype that lends itself to exoticization. So I've learned to mute myself. To downplay my beauty and the assumptions associated with a smoky eye and blended contour. My portrayal of self love is neatly packaged in modesty and shame. Loving yourself fully and publicly has never been tangible to me. Showing up as confident in my physical beauty and expanding (#PhD) intellect wasn’t an option. My self love was never above a negligible murmur no matter how much I wanted to blast its tune at full volume.
So, perhaps, I scroll through Instagram with jealousy. I covet other women of color’s ability to display confidence and pride as if it’s as effortless as exhaling. Perhaps it’s my own rage at never being accepted/affirmed as my whole self. Perhaps… I’m not so sure.
Maybe a better question is what makes it so that us women of color can never let the full-bodied sound of self love envelop us at maximum volume all the time?
