Write a story about a young black girl asking her white mother why does society think black women don't have as beautiful faces as women of other races
In the small, sunlit kitchen of their cozy home, nine-year-old Amara sat at the table, flipping through the pages of a magazine. Her fingers hesitated over a striking advertisement featuring a model with flowing hair and bright blue eyes, an image of beauty that seemed to saturate the pages of every publication she’d ever seen. Amara’s brow furrowed as she studied the glossy photos.
Her mother, Sarah, was stirring a pot on the stove, the aroma of spices wafting through the air. She turned to see Amara deep in thought, her small face reflecting a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
“Mom,” Amara started, breaking the silence, “why do people think Black women aren’t as beautiful as women from other races?”
Sarah paused, the wooden spoon hovering above the pot. It was a question her heart had prepared for, one she knew would come eventually. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sat down across from Amara, ready to have an important talk.
“Amara, that’s a very important question,” she said softly, looking into her daughter’s inquisitive eyes. “The truth is, beauty is seen differently depending on where you are and who you ask. Society often has narrow standards, and it can be really unfair.”
Amara nodded, her brow still creased. “But why do they think that? I mean, you’re beautiful, and those magazines have girls that look like me in them, but not as often.”
Sarah sighed, a wave of emotions washing over her. “You see, history has played a big role in this. For many years, images of beauty have been shaped by societal norms that favor certain features, often Eurocentric ones. This has made it harder for people who don’t fit that mold to feel beautiful.”
Amara began to fidget with her hair, twisting the tight curls that crowned her head. “But I like my hair,” she said, almost defensively. “And my skin is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It absolutely is, sweetheart,” Sarah assured her, admiration clear in her voice. “Your hair is a part of your beauty. It tells a story of strength and heritage. Every curl, every coil is a piece of who you are—who we are.”
Amara’s eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and uncertainty. “But what do I tell the kids at school who say a lot about it?”
“That’s tough, sweetheart,” Sarah said, feeling the weight of Amara’s struggles. “You could remind them that beauty isn’t just what we see on the outside. It’s about kindness, strength, and confidence. And you have all those things.”
Amara pondered that for a moment, then her face brightened. “So, I can be beautiful, right?”
“Absolutely. You are already beautiful,” Sarah affirmed, reaching across the table to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “And you should always believe that. You can create your own definition of beauty, one that makes room for every part of you.”
“Can we make our own magazine?” Amara asked, her imagination ignited. “With pictures of all kinds of beautiful women?”
“What a fantastic idea!” Sarah replied, her heart swelling with pride. “We can gather stories of amazing women and share the beauty that comes in all different shades, styles, and stories.”
“I want to include grandmas, too!” Amara added excitedly. “And my friends!”
“Yes!” Sarah laughed. “We’ll celebrate every kind of beauty there is. You’ll be the artist and storyteller, showcasing the brilliance of Black women and girls like you.”
Amara grinned, her earlier worries beginning to fade, replaced by an exhilarating sense of purpose. “Like a superhero for beauty?”
“Exactly,” Sarah said, her eyes twinkling. “You’ll be a superhero for everyone who feels like they don’t fit into society’s narrow ideas of beauty.”
Amara stood up, her small frame vibrant with enthusiasm. “Let’s start right now!”
As the sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating their laughter and ideas, both mother and daughter knew they were about to embark on a journey. A journey not just to redefine beauty but also to show the world that each voice, each story, each face—especially those of Black women—was worthy of celebration. Together, they would shine light on the beauty that had already been there, just waiting to be seen.