Oh Snap... I'm BLACK.
What does it mean to be Black in America? Sadly, most Black children have no idea. We are born innocent but soon become targeted and criminalized. I grew up in a bubble and never thought much about being Black. I remember the day that reality hit me. My Blackness slapped me in the face when I was eight years old. I remember this situation like it was yesterday. I was at the mall with my mom and a couple of my friends. My mom allowed my friends and I to go into a jewelry and accessory store for girls. I remember being so excited that I had twenty bucks to buy whatever I wanted to buy. That excitement faded 10 minutes later. Not only was I accused of trying to steal, but security was called on me as well. I had no idea why this lady thought that I was stealing at the time. I remember pulling out my money and showing the sales associate and security guard my twenty-dollar bill. I was determined to still buy something, I wanted them to see that I had money and they made a huge mistake.
“I’m not a thief, see.”
That really wasn’t the first time that I realized that I was Black. I loved being Black. I always loved my skin, my hair, and my culture that made me unique. That was the first time that I realized that I would be treated DIFFERENTLY because I was Black. I remember my mother being so angry, but she didn’t say anything. She quickly gathered my friends and me and rushed us out of the mall. When I got home that evening, she and my dad sat me down and we had “the talk.”
That really wasn’t the first time that I realized that I was Black. I loved being Black. I always loved my skin, my hair, and my culture that made me unique. That was the first time that I realized that I would be treated DIFFERENTLY because I was Black. I remember my mother being so angry, but she didn’t say anything. She quickly gathered my friends and me and rushed us out of the mall. When I got home that evening, she and my dad sat me down and we had “the talk.”
When most think of “the talk” they automatically think of the sex talk that parents give their children once they reach a certain age. Well when you're Black and living in America, parents have to have two important talks with their children. Most of the time this talk comes well before sex is even thought of.
My parents sat me down and basically said, “Karyn, that happened to you because you’re Black.” I remember being confused and asking what they meant by that. They went on to explain racial bias and different race issues that have occurred throughout history. I remember them asking me if I knew who Martin Luther King Jr. was. Of course, I looked at them like they had two heads because I learned about him in school. They went on to explain his movement and why he actually marched and did what he did. They even explained that his life was taken because he stood up for people who looked like us. I remember feeling sick after this conversation. I began to reflect on various situations that I had experienced, and I questioned if those things happened because I was Black too. I remember crying myself to sleep that night, but I couldn’t really articulate why I was emotional. I simply felt powerless.
I quickly learned that being Black in America means that your life will be different. Not only will you be treated differently but you will live a different life than others. That was a hard pill to swallow at eight. Becoming aware that I was different made me feel uncomfortable. Now I noticed when I was the only Black person in a room. Now I intentionally made sure that I didn’t touch things while I was shopping, to ensure that I didn’t get followed. No matter what I did to seem less “threatening” I was still BLACK. I realized that I couldn’t change my circumstance. I couldn’t scrub my color off and become white and I couldn’t make people see me as a normal human being. No matter what I tried to do, reality hit me harder and harder.
Power relations are very present in race issues. There is an unequal power relationship between whites and blacks in this country. This country has systems in place that are built on our differences. These systems were not designed for people like me to succeed. The biggest question that still remains unresolved for me is why does race even matter? I asked that question at eight years old and I still ask that question today in my twenties. I literally can’t think of a logical explanation for why racism exists. Quite frankly I think it’s stupid.
The sad thing about this story is that almost twenty years later, not much has changed. While in college, I have been accused of plagiarism multiple times by various professors and I am often ignored in classes. Though none of their accusations were accurate when things like that happen reality slaps you in the face once again. YOU’RE DIFFERENT. I’m still followed in stores, I’m still told that I'm ugly, and I’m still told that I’m not good enough. The only difference is that I have learned to accept that some people may not like me because I am Black, but I have to ignore it and keep trying to progress in life. It still gets to me sometimes and I go right back to being that confused eight-year-old little girl.
My parents sat me down and basically said, “Karyn, that happened to you because you’re Black.” I remember being confused and asking what they meant by that. They went on to explain racial bias and different race issues that have occurred throughout history. I remember them asking me if I knew who Martin Luther King Jr. was. Of course, I looked at them like they had two heads because I learned about him in school. They went on to explain his movement and why he actually marched and did what he did. They even explained that his life was taken because he stood up for people who looked like us. I remember feeling sick after this conversation. I began to reflect on various situations that I had experienced, and I questioned if those things happened because I was Black too. I remember crying myself to sleep that night, but I couldn’t really articulate why I was emotional. I simply felt powerless.
I quickly learned that being Black in America means that your life will be different. Not only will you be treated differently but you will live a different life than others. That was a hard pill to swallow at eight. Becoming aware that I was different made me feel uncomfortable. Now I noticed when I was the only Black person in a room. Now I intentionally made sure that I didn’t touch things while I was shopping, to ensure that I didn’t get followed. No matter what I did to seem less “threatening” I was still BLACK. I realized that I couldn’t change my circumstance. I couldn’t scrub my color off and become white and I couldn’t make people see me as a normal human being. No matter what I tried to do, reality hit me harder and harder.
Power relations are very present in race issues. There is an unequal power relationship between whites and blacks in this country. This country has systems in place that are built on our differences. These systems were not designed for people like me to succeed. The biggest question that still remains unresolved for me is why does race even matter? I asked that question at eight years old and I still ask that question today in my twenties. I literally can’t think of a logical explanation for why racism exists. Quite frankly I think it’s stupid.
The sad thing about this story is that almost twenty years later, not much has changed. While in college, I have been accused of plagiarism multiple times by various professors and I am often ignored in classes. Though none of their accusations were accurate when things like that happen reality slaps you in the face once again. YOU’RE DIFFERENT. I’m still followed in stores, I’m still told that I'm ugly, and I’m still told that I’m not good enough. The only difference is that I have learned to accept that some people may not like me because I am Black, but I have to ignore it and keep trying to progress in life. It still gets to me sometimes and I go right back to being that confused eight-year-old little girl.
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