Manic Pixie: Black Girls and the Everyday

Marshmallows in the Chocolate Chips

The first time I saw her, she was marching down the street, heading in the direction of the building where I was warmly seated inside. Her long and thick legs seemed to float above the ground, but there was still something awkward about her walk. It was almost like she merged two walks - how she walked and the elegant model she was presenting as. She had on a long tanned coat with a fur collar, matching boots, and possibly the shortest pleated mini skirt I have ever seen. She reminded me of a slutty Atsuko Jackson (if she was also a Bratz). Though her wig was chocolate brown with #27 highlights.

I am not the type of black girl who tears others down or makes note of their lace. The wind was strong and her walking didn't help. I could tell even from afar that she didn't bother to glue down the lace, as it was waving hello to the world. Though I could understand her, she was rocking a big curly wig with bangs. Normally, the lace would have been covered. The real reason I made note of it was that she seemed too curated not to care about this detail. Yet she seemed not to. She marched on, coming closer to the student lounge. It worked for her, made her more effortlessly cool and confident. From the first time I met her, I could tell she was on a different level than the rest of us.

She paused momentarily to open the glass door. With a struggle, she opened it. Her head rolled towards me. My breath hitched, preparing myself for our eyes to meet. They never did. Instead, she closed them and her head rolled back to normal. She marched on not looking anywhere in particular but still seeming to know where she was going.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I was a walking cliché. I stared at my school's rainbow clubroom, trying to muster enough courage to go in. I had spent the last 18 years of my life in a shabby glass closet. It was clear to everyone but my West African parents that I was gay. Though even they had moments when they thought it was true. However, a quick prayer to the lord was enough for them to never sit with the possibility too long.

Now I was miles away from home, I chose the furthest university I could attend. Like many clichés coming out movies, I was hoping to find myself. Entering that clubroom was the first step. I inched closer to it, as if using small steps would trick my brain into believing it wasn't in danger. My heart was racing, and my hands were clammy. It's honestly embarrassing to be this afraid to finally live in my truth. I dragged my hands over my cheeks, hoping the sensation would help me calm down. I took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.

"Excuse me," a soft and deep voice said from behind me.

I turned around to see it was that girl from a few days ago. She was still wearing the same wig; she smelt warm like caramel and she gave me a sort of half smile. I quickly moved to the side. "Sorry," I said. She nodded and brushed past me, heading into the clubroom. It took me a few seconds to process what just happened. When I did, my eyes went wide. I pushed the door open without a second thought. This was no longer about my gay panic. This was about her, the finest girl I had ever seen, was gay.

"HEY!!!" a shrill voice greeted me. I smiled weakly and scanned the room, hoping to find her. A light-skinned girl about my height stepped in front of me, forcing my eyes to focus on her. She had bright purple eyeshadow on, half-shaved curly fro, and loads of piercings. This was the type of gay I was used to.

"What's your name?" she asked.

I hesitated to answer, not out of fear but because my brain was still stuck on that girl. I had to see her, in this room and this space with these people. That was the only way I could believe it, that a girl like that had something in common with me.

"I'm Rose, and my pronouns are she/her," the light-skinned girl in front of me said, sticking her hand out. I looked at her hand, but my brain still wouldn't budge.