Post by Deja (Admin) on Apr 8, 2016 3:49:24 GMT
I don’t remember the first time that I really noticed race. I don’t remember the first time that it occurred to me that I had more white friends than friends of any minority. I don’t remember the exact moment when I became so self-aware that I was a black woman and that some people regarded me as being the dirt beneath their shoes.
What I can remember is being six years old in first grade and crying in my mothers lap about how much I hated my new school. Another girl in my class had bullied me to the point of hysterics, all because I was black (Not to mention, she had the goddamn nerve to do this during Black History Month). I couldn’t fathom why she could hate me for the way I looked. I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept that to some people, the pigment of my skin determined that I was a terrible person, unworthy of being respected.
Fast forward to my junior year of high school. I vividly remember this kid bumping into me, nearly knocking me over, and causing one of my books to fall on the floor. Instead of apologizing, he sneered and said, “Watch where you’re going you filthy n*****.” At that moment, I truly did not want to exist. No one said anything. No one acted appalled or even shocked at what he had just said to me. No one spoke up in my defense. There was barely a moment of silence before the busy halls continued on. Nothing in their world had changed while that one word had torn mine apart.
A year later, my high school gained recognition. Not for our amazing sports or phenomenal academics, but for the senior boys who decided to wear a confederate flag cape to a volleyball game and then hung it proudly on their car the next morning while yelling racial slurs. I couldn’t understand why this was happening in 2014 in New York, of all places. I was 12 years older and I still couldn’t understand why people hated us so much for something we couldn’t control.
When I think about race, I think about every time I was followed around while shopping. I think about every time that I was told that I was “pretty for a black girl” (As if the mere notion of a black woman being beautiful was so radical). I think about every time that the boy in my high school would joke around and constantly ask me if we could have a dance off and power twerk with my “strong southern hips” (Granted, I’m not even southern). I think about the time that one of my best friends told me that I would attract more male attention like she did, if I was white. I think about every single time that my friends called me an oreo because I “acted white” on the inside. Because apparently, black people cannot be quiet, thoughtful, well educated and eloquently spoken. Apparently, black people cannot have an eclectic range of music taste other than rap and r&b. Apparently, black people cannot be anything other than the loud mouth, angry, and ghetto stereotype.
I don’t remember the first time that I realized I wanted to be more.
What I can remember is being six years old in first grade and crying in my mothers lap about how much I hated my new school. Another girl in my class had bullied me to the point of hysterics, all because I was black (Not to mention, she had the goddamn nerve to do this during Black History Month). I couldn’t fathom why she could hate me for the way I looked. I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept that to some people, the pigment of my skin determined that I was a terrible person, unworthy of being respected.
Fast forward to my junior year of high school. I vividly remember this kid bumping into me, nearly knocking me over, and causing one of my books to fall on the floor. Instead of apologizing, he sneered and said, “Watch where you’re going you filthy n*****.” At that moment, I truly did not want to exist. No one said anything. No one acted appalled or even shocked at what he had just said to me. No one spoke up in my defense. There was barely a moment of silence before the busy halls continued on. Nothing in their world had changed while that one word had torn mine apart.
A year later, my high school gained recognition. Not for our amazing sports or phenomenal academics, but for the senior boys who decided to wear a confederate flag cape to a volleyball game and then hung it proudly on their car the next morning while yelling racial slurs. I couldn’t understand why this was happening in 2014 in New York, of all places. I was 12 years older and I still couldn’t understand why people hated us so much for something we couldn’t control.
When I think about race, I think about every time I was followed around while shopping. I think about every time that I was told that I was “pretty for a black girl” (As if the mere notion of a black woman being beautiful was so radical). I think about every time that the boy in my high school would joke around and constantly ask me if we could have a dance off and power twerk with my “strong southern hips” (Granted, I’m not even southern). I think about the time that one of my best friends told me that I would attract more male attention like she did, if I was white. I think about every single time that my friends called me an oreo because I “acted white” on the inside. Because apparently, black people cannot be quiet, thoughtful, well educated and eloquently spoken. Apparently, black people cannot have an eclectic range of music taste other than rap and r&b. Apparently, black people cannot be anything other than the loud mouth, angry, and ghetto stereotype.
I don’t remember the first time that I realized I wanted to be more.