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I don't believe her comment was of malice, but rather confusion. 'He must really like you,' commented my tall, model-thin brunette friend with a slight smirk. For instance, on a past trip to Portugal, a friend of mine took notice of the hostel receptionist complimenting me whenever we'd pass the front desk.

White women, no matter how open-minded they believe themselves to be, still subconsciously see themselves as the 'default,' and any nonwhite woman fitting into the 'hot girl' trope is supposed to be the exception, not the rule.Д®xisting in white femme spaces has shown me a significant amount of competitiveness I've never experienced with other Black women, and I soon questioned if all of the cattiness and backhanded compliments I've encountered was racism in disguise.

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I once believed women mistaking dislike for envy was a sexist way to hide insecurity, but after being in white spaces in both my social and professional life - spaces I typically steered from during my university days - I am discovering it holds some merit.ДЇemininity is measured in whiteness, and those who benefit from white ideals of beauty but aren't necessarily conventionally beautiful are noticeably uncomfortable when women ranked lower on the racial hierarchy are praised for their looks. Recognizing my own privilege of affording to live and travel abroad, the sea of whiteness I tiringly find myself swimming in has made me hyperaware of how my race and performance of femininity as a straight, cisgender African-American woman affects how I navigate different cultures, and how they treat me in return. My circle of friends isn't as colorful as it once was after finishing university. are white people becoming aware of their exotification of brown bodies, or is it a defense mechanism to justify why women of color are physically attractive despite the eurocentric standards of beauty we are forced to uphold? White Women Will Always Yearn to Be the Standard of Beauty Her race did not once cross my mind, but rather how the man I loved had his arms wrapped lovingly around a woman who was not me.ДЄfter weeks of replaying what went wrong, what went right, and all of the typical questions that plague one at the end of a relationship, I couldn't help but wonder. Trying so hard to delete the memory of the mysterious woman in the photo from my mind, I didn't at all question why our races mattered, or why my (white) friend felt so compelled to ask. My friend's very first question, amidst my tears and freshly packed suitcases was, 'Was she Black?' I recapped the entire thing to my friend over a hysterical video chat, beginning with the arguing, leading up to the Tinder notification, and ending with the discovery of another woman's nudes in his deleted iCloud folder. This summer I went through my very first breakup.