The interwoven self: understanding the complex tapestry of my identity Free

In a world that often tries to fit us into neat little boxes, I stand at the crossroads of multiple identities as an unapologetically Black, unashamedly fat and proudly pansexual woman. Each side of my being weaves a complex tapestry of resilience and defiance that I carry with me every day. To only explain what it means to carry these respective pieces of my identity, separately, would simply not do my story justice. What makes me who I am is the direct influence of every part of me interacting with one another on an ever-changing basis. One characteristic may take the spotlight from time to time, but never without my other identities standing right beside it. Though, to fully understand what it means to be Nijerian, I must start at the beginning.

I’ve been taught that one of the assumptions people often make is that the first thing a child will notice about themselves is their skin color or gender. For me personally, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The first thing I noticed about myself was my weight. Did I know I was Black and a girl; yes, because my parents and everyone else had told me so. Did that matter to me; not at first? It was what it was, and I didn’t question it. Being fat didn’t bother me either until my family started pointing it out to me as a child. They were the first people to influence my perception of the word “fat.” Fat was a synonym for the words bad, wrong and ugly. Whenever someone used the word fat, it was automatically associated with a negative view of my body. Imagine how isolating it was being one of the biggest girls in elementary school. I can remember being in the 4th grade and weighing in at a health expo my school was having. We were lined up in the gym one by one as the health instructor said our weight out loud. When I saw the scale hit 100 lbs, I was devastated and embarrassed that everyone now knew just how fat I was. On top of that, being forced to exercise every summer when I went to visit my grandpa was even worse. This wasn’t the type of workout you see on TV or social media where people, who were already fit looked like they wanted to be there and were being encouraged; it was me on the treadmill for hours or running laps in a field as I was constantly stung by bees. Then at the end of the day, my grandmother, who saw my suffering, would sneak me sweets and foods because they were being watched or restricted. During those summers, I remember not only feeling like I wasn’t good enough but also like I was unlovable or unworthy of simple happy pleasures like a cookie or ice cream.

My fat body became the catalyst for recognizing the other parts of myself. I began to see how their interaction with one another made me the epitome of everything that those in power would say was wrong with our nation. When I realized that being fat was not okay, I also became aware that being Black, being a woman and being queer was not okay either. To be “morbidly obese” is one thing, but to be morbidly obese while being a Black woman who is romantically and sexually attracted to all humans is another. When folks think about a Black woman, she’s expected to be light skinned, tall, curvaceous and thick. She should have a flat stomach, big ass, long hair and plump breasts. She should be submissive and pure and, the definition of a freak, someone willing to do it all in the bedroom. Meanwhile, I’m 355 lbs., reaching only 5'2 and covered in stretch marks that begin at my collar bone and end at my hips from the drastic fluctuation in weight I’ve experienced over the years. My body is quite literally round with mountains of cellulite, dips and rolls. My skin tone is what many makeup brands would call toffee or mocha, which is enough to pass the Brown Paper Bag Test, yet not light or dark enough to truly be a topic of discussion by those in power or those in my community who favored one complexion over the other.

Nobody ever said anything out loud to me about the color of my skin until I became a teenager, but it wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together. I was either seen as extremely intelligent (which seemed to be astonishing to my white peers, teachers and even strangers) or people dismissed me before I could open my mouth. It was assumed, regardless of how others viewed my intelligence, that I was loud, aggressive and sexually promiscuous. Being fat only accelerated these notions of how others viewed me as a person. I distinctly remember the women in my family codeswitching during most of their interactions with others in power or who could help them in some way (upper class white people), being extremely dedicated to embodying femininity, accepting mistreatment or abuse from their romantic partners, and constantly working to “keep their figure.” The expectations they had for themselves always trickled down to me. I was often scolded for speaking my mind or speaking improperly. Comments were made when I went back for a second helping of food and when I started wearing my hair in its natural form, I was begged to start going to the salon to get it done or to receive a perm. The perimeters the adult women put around my body and my behaviors as Black girl would become something that separated me from the other Black girls in my family. Some of them straight up told me they didn’t like me because I “acted like I was better than them.” Little did they know how much I hated having to put on a show for everyone around me when I just wanted to go unnoticed or only be acknowledged for the things I was passionate about, like poetry, my cooking and baking skills and simply learning something new.

My hyper(in)visibility continued when I was outed to my family by my cousin for liking women. I was open about my sexuality to my schoolmates and friends but had gone back and forth with my parents about it over the years without truly addressing the fact that I was queer in a suitable and healthy way. At school, most of the girls were worried I liked them while the boys became more sexually interested in me. Regardless of who I was interacting with, my queer identity was always put in the spotlight without my consent. I identified as lesbian throughout middle and the first half of high school, not because I wasn’t attracted to men but because interactions with women were based on my personality and not my weight. With women, I didn’t have to worry about whether I was pretty enough for a big girl. I was also able to express my dominant and “masculine” personality without penalty. With men, it was always that I was excessively aggressive or they only wanted me in secret.

What pushed me in the direction of no longer giving a fuck was my suicide attempt at the beginning of 11th grade. I drank ¾ of a bottle of hydrocodone, but it wasn’t enough to overdose. That’s probably the first time I was truly able to appreciate my body for what it was. The fat body I had hated so much and seen as ugly, unworthy and unlovable was the reason I didn’t overdose. Much later in life, I would learn that BMI can apparently affect drug metabolism, causing some medications to be underdosed or overdosed. So, being fat helped me survive. I became more comfortable expressing my sexuality and Blackness in the 11th grade. I started to rebel against what the Black women in my family and society told me was acceptable and living for me despite how others perceived me. I wore more masculine-presenting clothes when I felt like it. I stopped worrying about how loud or angry I seemed. I didn’t suppress my intelligence and I dated who I wanted to date, whether it was a woman, man, both or a couple.

The literal awakening I had during that time led me to see the beauty in what it meant to be a peacock on a farm full of chickens. To me this means that being unique or more visible doesn’t have to be a bad thing, especially when that visibility can be a catalyst to change. It doesn’t mean I don’t struggle sometimes in the present. We live in a world where every identity I carry goes against the patriarchy’s hegemonic standards. I navigate in and out of my many identities depending on the situation, but what makes adulthood different from my child and teen years is that I showcase them proudly. I am in a space where although my Blackness, queerness, fat and womanhood are despised by the majority, I also get to use these attributes to build community and disrupt system. I am already doing this in my personal and professional work, where I promote body neutrality, sex positivity and advocate for equity. My body, my skin color and my sexuality have been meaningful in the work I do as a sex therapist and coach when helping other people navigate the intersectional complexities of their lives. My experiences are valuable, and I enjoy sharing them with others who may not otherwise have the representation they need.

So, in the mosaic of my existence, each piece – my Blackness, my size, my sexuality and my love – shimmers with its own unique brilliance and equally bright. My journey has led me to a profound truth: that to embrace oneself fully is an act of rebellion in a world that demands conformity. As I stride forward, unburdened by the past, I carry with me the lessons of resilience and the promise of transformation. I am Nijeria, a woman not defined by the narrow expectations of society but by the boundless expanse of my own narrative. As I continue to navigate the complexities of my identities, I do so with the knowledge that my story – my truth – is a beacon for those still finding their way out of the darkness. Remember that in the tapestry of humanity, it is the threads of diversity that create the richest patterns, the most vibrant colors and the most compelling stories.