The Pain Of Valentine’s Day For A Black Girl In A White World

Why don’t they love black girls here?

It was Valentine’s Day and I was in the 7th grade. I was trying to focus in English class when a scrunched ball of paper hit the back of my head. I bent down to pick it up, looking around to see if I could figure out which one of my racist classmates had thrown it my way. Their faces were white, blank, innocent like little Cherubin angels but I knew that behind the facade, they were devious demons vicious, uncaring, and unkind.

I opened up the piece of paper, my hands trembling, my heart bracing itself for the painful contents that I knew I would find inside. This wasn’t the first time that they had done this, but I was feeling particularly vulnerable that day and I wasn’t sure I would be able to cope. The message had been scribbled hastily, the writer hadn’t waited for the fountain pen ink to dry so there were royal blue blotches all over. The message read:

“Go back to where you came from blackie,”

I heard the familiar snickering of the white angelic-looking children behind me as I held back the tears. It was a day of love yet their hatred for me was so apparent.

Class ended and I rushed out of the room to the toilets. I made my way to the safety of a stall just as large droplets of tears rolled down my face. How was I going to make it through the day?

Valentine’s Day was an important celebration at my private school in Geneva, Switzerland. For a few centimes (cents), you could send a secret message and a lollipop to someone you liked or loved. Sometimes the messages were anonymous so girls and boys would spend days trying to find out who their secret admirers were.

Whenever that special day came about, I hoped and prayed that I would get just one lollipop, one sign that someone might like or be in love with me, but that never happened, not throughout my whole time at school. Instead, the only missives received were messages of hatred.

I was attracted to one boy, in particular, his name was Alex A. and one Valentine's Day I gathered all my pocket money and sent him a secret message and a strawberry flavored lollipop (my favorite). I, later on, heard him say:

“I know that blackie with the big bum and Medusa braids sent me that love note, how dare she imagine I would ever be interested in her?”

My heart sank and that night, stranded in a prison of pain and low self-esteem, I cried myself to sleep.

As I grew older, I began to dread the day more and more. But in the late 80s, something magical happened. Florence Jacki Joyner, a black female athlete with gorgeous nails, became a celebrity. Whitney Houston bellowed at every single school dance. Tracy Chapman impressed us with her poetic indie songs and Janet Jackson made us move to an infectious beat whenever she took the stage.

Being a black girl was cool, being a black girl was fashionable. And with this, somehow I thought a secret admirer would surprise me on Valentine's Day. And indeed, when I was in the 10th grade, I did get a secret message asking me out on a date.

I tried to identify who the person was but couldn’t. The message indicated that I was invited for a drink at Snoopy’s, a nearby restaurant. We were to meet at 2 pm the following Saturday. I got home full of excitement, intrigued by whom the person may be and already smitten by the romantic undertones of the secret missive.

I made my way to the restaurant my heart beating fast. I was excited and curious at the same time. Dressed in a beautiful red dress that showed off my hourglass figure, I was on cloud nine. My attire was a gorgeous heart emoji red — red I thought was most appropriate for lovers.

As I waited outside the restaurant my mind wandered, imagining who my secret admirer would be. Would he be tall or short? Would he have charcoal black hair — a feature I found irresistibly attractive? I stood there, five minutes went by and then ten and then twenty and thirty, nobody showed up. It took me a while to realize that no one ever would. As I turned around to head home I noticed two black boys snickering in the nearby bushes. Their eyes, jubilant with deceptive glee. I looked at them in horror and hurriedly fled like a thief caught red-handed.

That Monday at school, English class was pure torture. The snickering in my back seemed much louder. The children were passing around photos and one landed on my desk. I looked at it in shock. It was a photo of me waiting at Snoopy’s, an expectant look on my face. I looked overdressed in my red dress and black stockings. I took a hard look at the girl in the photo, she looked melancholic. The photos made the rounds and I became the laughing stock of the school for weeks to come.

I, later on, learned that the black boys who regularly sent racist slurs my way had come up with the idea to play a prank and humiliate me. I couldn’t imagine why another black person would literally sell me down the river to impress the white kids in the class.

It was the first and definitely not the last time that I realized that I could not always count on black boys and men to stand up for me or protect me. To this day, some of the worst betrayals I have received in life have come from black men. But I also have to say here that I know that many black men love and care for black women.

I survived the months of bullying and teasing after that and soon enough I was in the 12th grade, my very last year of school. I was eager to graduate and get out of that racist environment that was hidden well behind a facade of a progressive international school. When I got my diploma, I didn’t so much as look back. Many people are nostalgic about their school years. I hated every moment of it and never wish to return.

Today, many of those nasty students send me friend requests on Facebook. I wonder if they have amnesia — have they forgotten how horrible they were to me? It seems that many consider our school years as water under the bridge, but the thing is, I can’t forget the pain and trauma they put me through. I cannot be friends with people who pushed my head further down underwater when I was already drowning. Time has not erased any of the pain.

Why am I writing about this? Well because not everyone gets messages of love on Valentine’s Day. The day in itself exacerbates feelings of exclusion, loneliness and not belonging. No human being should ever be on the receiving end of such pain.

So if you know someone who is alone this Valentine’s Day, send them a caring message, give them a bit of affection, generosity, and kindness. Just a word, a sentence, can change someone’s life for the better. Share a bit of love and make a difference in someone’s life on February 14th — the day for love and lovers.

Thank you for them and thanks for reading my perspective.