I Didn’t Ask To Be Black
It’s a challenge but I only get one shot at this.
It started when I was very young with, “Why are you burnt?” “Do you eat the same food we eat?” “Why do you paint your skin?” “Does your color rub off?” These were the confusing inquiries and comments that would be my introduction to race and being thought of as different by those I shared the bus ride to school.
I would often hear these inquiries and over time wondered if they would be a permanent perception of who I am. Am I that alien so many viewed me as or was I placed in this environment simply to be the poster child for universal bias shared by a majority?
Was this a sick joke? For many, it was.
As I got older, the comments became more specific in nature, allowing for little doubt as to why they were directed toward me. “Smile, we can’t see you.” “We can’t tell if you are dirty” “Do you live in a hut?”
Why were no other kids around me the focus of these “inquisitive minds?”
Why is it that I was chosen to be the lead in this play?
It was at this stage of my life that I began the journey of understanding how my skin color not only was not like everyone else’s but how it caused emotion in others that I could not control and often had to be cautious of.
One of the things the white world does not know, but I think I know, is that Black people are just like everybody else. — James Baldwin
Early on the constant reminder by a hostile environment solidified my perception of the world around me and how it treated a Black kid adopted by white parents. “Where did they get you?” As if I was found on the side of the road somewhere waiting for a white savior to rescue me from my inevitable life of savagery. Though I was beginning to understand who I was, to many my presence was nothing more than a source of curiosity or the frustration of distraction.
I only knew myself as “me,” but apparently there was another person wearing my clothes who would accompany me every day. This was the “other” that attracted the most attention from the outside world. I didn’t feel special for receiving this attention, however. My early years were confusing — a time when I had difficulty processing the barrage of microaggressions and seemingly innocent inquires on why I was different. I felt alone.
Without the benefit of a diverse setting, the suburbs of Boston became my landscape of less, and on a few occasions, my battlefield.
Evolution of division, in real-time
Eventually, the targeted comments that were used as weapons of discrimination and division became more aggressive. “You don’t belong here.” “Go back where you came from.” And my personal favorite… “You’re not like us.”
I’m very proud to be black, but black is not all I am. That’s my cultural historical background, my genetic make-up, but it’s not all of who I am nor is it the basis from which I answer every question. — Denzel Washington
Throughout my formative years, there was this constant struggle between who I was and how people saw me. Was I this monster those biased eyes so blatantly cast upon me saw or was I the person I saw in the mirror every day? I was often perplexed at the outright malevolence and, admittedly, I would question my purpose in life. There must be something wrong with me if so many saw me as something other than a person. At home, the counter to what I experienced outside was expressed through unconditional love, support, and encouragement… however, the comfort of the family environment could only protect me to a certain degree.
Ultimately you are fighting against a deeply rooted subconsciousness planted centuries ago in an effort to oppress a certain group of people. In Rendering minorities as monsters in American Gothic narratives, Dr. Maisha Wester looks at the hatred and fear that is interwoven into our collective lives. Being looked at as the “other” or some type of monster imprinted in the minds of the white community since America’s infancy only reflects the dangerous and historically oppressive ideology that has enslaved the Black community for centuries.
The innocence of a child discovering their environment, wondering out loud about the world around them might, unbeknownst to them, be contradicted by the negativity in their ether. The tug of war between oppression and acceptance that has shaped this country for generations has yet to let up on the neck of marginalized communities. In every aspect of American history, we have seen the bastardization of the Black community; in literature, education, historical chronicling, media, and daily practice.
This lives with us every day.
Why must I carry the burden of people’s fear — be the educator for an uneducated system trying to educate me? Is it necessary that I become the suitor of inequality in my own life? I didn’t ask for this. I did not, and don’t invite such prejudice into my life.
It is tough to break the cycle of historical prejudice. The embodiment of which plagues the Black community to this day. Against a backdrop of political and cultural dehumanization of Black people, we find an unrelenting fight that has yet to bear a rightful outcome.
Growing up, race did not occupy a substantial section of my identity. The idea that I was anything other than a person living amongst other people did not register to me. I knew who I was and saw myself as no different from the person next to me. Although I was different… not because I am, but because this is how people perceived me — different.
I don’t recall having to sign up for a Black survival course just to live my life. This was unequivocally not something I had put my mind to at a young age. Race was not a factor in my daily pursuit of happiness as a child. I just enjoyed being a kid (sometimes). Acknowledging the differences among people was an observation but not a discussion; and certainly not something I used as a divider.
As a child, I recognized that my worries never seemed to parallel with those of my peers. Constantly needing to be cautious — where to go, who to avoid. Why must I act a certain way around others, or with whom would I be okay?
Are these the worries for a child living a typical happy life?
Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud
“I did not sign up to be Black but am proud I am.” This, a response I offered when asked by someone years ago if I minded being Black. To think someone would actually ask this?
Though I am fortunate (and proud) to have the blood of multiple cultures running through my veins, as do we all, what I identify as is Black because this is how the world views me. I don’t have the luxury of leaving the house and being mistaken for a member of the majority, but that’s okay. What is not okay is being viewed as someone who people should fear, or regarded as worthless or the “other.”
“Where did they get you?” As if I was found on the side of the road somewhere waiting for a white savior to rescue me from my inevitable life of savagery.
Being the keeper of someone else’s problem is a monumental weight to carry — a reality that most POC face on a daily basis. We didn’t ask to be the universal target of hatred, to assume we should sit meekly while in the crosshairs of those who wish us harm. Perhaps generations of systemic racism have had their way with the Black community wanting us to be submissive and not accept our own value. I know many wish this for us.
At a certain point in my life, concerns of racial bias toward me became unaffecting. Looking back at my time as a young child constantly getting caught up by the minutiae of youth, having the foresight to anticipate such injustice at the hands of the world that surrounded me, was inconceivable. Such thoughts were foreign and I gave no permission to infiltrate my innocence.
I find myself as an aging adult surviving in a world that places a target on my back each and every day I brave the outside.
Ashamed of who I am was never an emotion I put much stock in. Well, I could stand to lose a few “lbs” but for the most part, up until now, my life has been an exercise in getting through the day. It was only in the later years did I come to the full realization that my identity, more specifically what I looked like, mattered more to the outside world than it did to me.
I’m exhausted.
Thank you for reading!