Why Does the Idea of a Confident, Fat Black Woman Make You So Uncomfortable?

I love me. I’m fat. I’m black. I’m beautiful, and I don’t look my age. My hair is nappy and as big as my smile. I’m usually the loudest person in the room, and my laugh ripples through the air like a hypnotic vibration.

My breasts take over the entire top half of my frame, and the rolls around my waist fill in the rest. I was not blessed with much in the way of an ass, but I work with what I have, and I’m doing it, bitch.

As a writer and someone with a growing social media presence, each day I encounter two sets of people: those who love me as I am and say it openly and loudly in my Facebook comments and Twitter mentions, and those who despise me for having the nerve to see myself as beautiful, and therefore feel the need to dig in and try to get under my skin.

They, apparently, are under the mistaken impression that I don’t have mirrors in my house and haven’t already called myself fat in my profile picture. I have the same profile picture on all of my social media accounts and on every author page on the sites…

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