The stories I read show me beautiful girls, girls who shine as bright as the sun, girls with fair skin and blue eyes, girls who wield swords and magic to save the world. I’ve always loved those stories, escaping into someone else's world, someone else's mind. Beautiful girls falling in love with handsome boys and making a happy ending for themselves even when the world denied them one.
But where are the stories about me?
What about girls like me? The quiet ones who read about the brave girls, girls with brown skin and brown eyes? The girls who are so often alone in their fight to be heard? The girls who wield their words as weapons? Girls who fall in love with other girls?
Where are the stories about me?
Where are stories showing the ten year old who kept looking for herself in her books that brown girls can save the world too? Where are the stories showing the twelve year old who hated her face that her brown skin and brown eyes are beautiful? Where are the stories showing the thirteen year old that she wasn't alone in liking girls?
Where are the stories about me?