I couldn't go to sleep last night...and apparently everyone else couldn't either. And with all the craziness going on with political wars, talks of world wars, and the ongoing saga of racial wars coupled with those of us trying to trace our true heritage that isn't studied at ALL in textbooks-- all of the above were subjects for pillow talk. But the resounding questions that seem to plague or motivate all of us, across racial lines or divides is: Who am I? Who is the real me? Who is the me I want to be? Who is the me I want others to see me as? And when stories like Trayvon Martin come up, some of us ask ourselves, Could that have been me?
Black Beauty or not to be?
When I was young, I grew up in an all black school on a mostly black island. I didn't know what it was to feel like a minority. I saw myself everyday in the eyes of my classmate next to me, or on the skin of the hands of the teachers that taught me. I didn't know what racism was. It was 1991. I was 5. When you're that age, what you know is what you see...whether its on TV or in real life. But even then, even living on a black-majority island, I still felt like the "Other". In other words, not the ideal. I just knew that at that point in my life, I remember myself saying to my best friend Olivia that "I wish I was white". We were both looking in the mirror in the bathroom. Perhaps, staring back at ourselves trying to figure out if we both liked what we saw. I remembered wishing out loud that I was something I wasn't. There was this sadness in my mind somewhere that my black wasn't beautiful. I don't know how I arrived at that conclusion.
Culture Shock
In 1993, we moved to Kearney, Nebraska. Yes, you read right. I remember being excited but that quickly came to a halt as we were often overtly hated. The first summer there in Kearney, a rural city, in a 90% white state of Nebraska was a rude awakening. My sister, brother and I would go to the mall, to the park, on the playground, we couldn't help but notice we were ALWAYS the only black kids we saw in that town at least 95% of the time. I don't remember it really mattering until we were constantly reminded that we were different and different meant disliked. "Different" was being the "other" that wasn't represented in the town WAS a bad thing. It was the scary unknown thing.
Lessons on the Playground
When on the playground, on a Saturday in Harmon Park, I was playing on the swings with my younger brother while my sister went down the slide. There was another white girl and her mother around the jungle gym. She walked over to my sister, who was 10 at the time and said, "I can't go down the slide because I'm allergic to black people." That was strike one. My sister told our parents and I don't remember any real strong reactions. We oftentimes shrugged alot of that bullshit off. But, I know, my sister (she has always been tough on the outside) was hurt by it. It was the first time someone had come up to her before her even speaking to tell her in so many words that she hated her. The worst part about it was, that someone had to teach that little girl that she was "allergic" not to just anybody, but "black" people.
Is this the 1950s?
I remember another time that first summer in Kearney, being so excited that my family and I were going down to get pizza from a local pizza restaurant. We came in and it always felt to me wherever I was (specifically in this particular state), that my skin was yelling out to everyone else: "Hey look at me, I'm BLACK!" Without fail, wherever we would go or I would go, the stares became so commonplace that I couldn't help but be self-conscious. At this particular time, something else happened that I can never forget, even if I wanted to. The waitress approached us and seated us but not without her own uncertain glances at us, I felt awkward. We waited and waited and waited to be served until my father said something about the service. The waitress approached us and said "I'm sorry, we can't serve you." There were other people eating pizza, none of them were black. I was hungry and excited to get some! Why couldn't I just get some pizza! I know my dad fought to get us some, until we just got up and left. Even my father was most visibly upset by what just happened. And what could he do about it? It wasn't just the waitress or the manager at Godfather's Pizza, I would soon learn it was many others.
The "N" Word
As my days in elementary school would prove a little bit worse. After settling in, I started to grow into being more comfortable with the fact that my sister and brother were the only other black kids in an entire school of 300. That was, until a particular day at recess when I was minding my own business on the playground talking to my friends (who were all white kids and very nice! :). Unassuming and perhaps daydreaming about my elementary school crush playing tetherball, one of my friend's older brother, Casey walked up to me, looked me in eyes as I looked back at him and said "You're a nigger!"
I just looked at him. Time stood still for the longest minute I can remember. I was so silently shocked by that moment and didn't expect it that I just looked back at him with quiet eyes. Even then, I empathized for him. That it wasn't me he hated. It was something and someone he didn't know but only had ideas about, was what he hated. And all i felt was HIS anger and my pain for being hated before I ever opened my mouth. He walked away, but we stared at each other for about 30 seconds. My friends, (who were all white) some of them I am still facebook friends with today, told me to "Tell on him! That was mean!" But I didn't. At my age, I knew that telling on him wouldn't change his mind or his feelings about black people. Someone had already done the damage of teaching him what he chose to believe. So, the day went on and during eating my lunch hours after recess, Casey came up to me and apologized...like he meant it. It was like he had a conscience. He'd just been taught wrong. I was 7 years old. I learned that silence can be golden. Reactions are everything! And I was starting to learn quickly that I was being defined by my color. Not by my reputation, but my color. This would trail me into middle school where I was largely an outcast. And based on what some of the other white kids that would associate with me (when no one was watching) would say, "I think the reason why alot of people don't like you, is because you're black, Kristen." Or, "my parents said that if I ever dated a black guy, they would disown me." From 1993 to 2001, I lived in the mindset of expecting everyone to hate me, initially.
Never will Forget the Amadou's of this World
But the growth in myself is what I remember the most. I became the loudest voice for political change in the classroom (in middle school and high school) and for current events news stories like Amadou Diallo (in New York, 1999) where Diallo was an innocent man who was shot at 41 times, (while reaching into his pocket to show his ID) by officers in "plainclothes" while they were looking for a suspect in a rape case. A rape case where the suspect described "had similar features" to Mr.Diallo. To this day, I can't help but remember the majority of the other students who were 14 years old, disagreeing that the result of this act of violence didn't have anything to do with race. OR that Diallo "shouldn't have reached in his pocket!" I was outraged.
Throughout my childhood, I couldn't help but feel this sense of niihilism or defeat. Like, things just wouldn't change and that I would always be a loser based on what the white majority thought of me. I was sentenced before I ever opened my mouth. And that feeling slowly started to numb me to the pain of it all. But out of that numbness and the loneliness of being me, "different", "that one black girl" and outcast I became strong. I started to lift weights to ease my feelings of inadequacy and became mentally AND physically strong at the same time. I started to really love me. I started not to care that I was an outcast and just expected it and accepted it. I wore hoodies and baggy clothes to make statements and prove points during high school and middle school; just like everyone is doing now for Trayvon. I learned how to be an activist without rallying...you can do it by being a living example by simply speaking up..consistently.
I AM.......
I am Trayvon Martin! I am Trayvon Martin because people have tried to murder me, with their words, with their actions, with their hate. The silence that is left behind him is a deafening one, that what "was" still "is" and it can't change by shrugging our shoulders and moving on. Regardless of what happens to Zimmerman, how do we prevent more Amadou Diallo's, Sean Bell's and Trayvon Martin's? I think admitting is always the first step. Admitting means that everyone who is or isn't a minority must agree that there are one too many crimes that are STILL RACIALly motivated. Sweeping things under the rug or trying to brush off a national event like its nothing because you don't think it involves you is cowardly and uninformed. It isn't until the same thing happens to a coward that they wake up. Why wait until then? History IS repeating.
Common Threads
In all of these stories of brutality of innocent black men, is the ignorance and hate that lies deep within people. And some of you might think, "Stop playing the race card." Or, "He shouldn't have been wearing a hoodie". And based on the accounts in this particular story and many others is the fact that it is utterly ridiculous and the plot line repetitive. The only way one can rid themselves of ignorance is to start hanging around all kinds of people they really have no idea about before letting the media be their guide to cultural and racial backgrounds. Another common thread is underexposure. People seem to be naturally afraid of what they dont' know. This is what I have to say, GET OVER IT and get out of that box you're living in.
The issue with ColorBLINDness; Ignorance
As a person with a history of overt racism brought against me, I have a bone to pick with this new term "colorblind". First of all, how can you see period when you are blind? When is blindness the answer to anything? Blind-- to not be able to see. The hard concept for so many is to simply grasp that people are different, that people are NOT colors in a crayon box, they are REAL human beings. And, I don't care what color the person is that is saying it, its an insult coming from anyone from any background. So stop comparing me to an inanimate object! Second, I would rather have some one see me as a black person, because its what I am-- than being blind to it! Because its almost like its too hard for them to accept me when they can see that I'm clearly different than them. My challenge is to accept that I'm different (most noticeably, first, on the outside) and it can't be changed. Do NOT be blind to it. Learn how to deal with it! In this order, notice, tolerate, accept. That is the process for actualizing that there is respect for people of different backgrounds you don't think you can relate to until you are exposed to them. I would rather know that someone couldn't accept me for who I actually am (a black person), than always pretending that I'm not what I clearly am (a black person). It does not define me, but dammit, that's part of who I am.
All in all, the brutality in this case and Lord, in the recent lynching of a black man, who was outside in a parking lot when southern white teenagers targeted him in a random act of violence to brutally attack, beat him and then run him over are just constant reminders that there is still work to do on minds and souls. You can work on your body all day long and have it look good on the outside, but where are your fat pockets or areas of question that need working on on the inside? What has ailed you? The skin I'm in has defined me, but I am not defined by it. And right now, I am the narrator. I am the person with the voice, a message, a story and many lessons about life, love, struggle, and possible solutions. I am the person with love and a smile who feels fabulous in loving the me I'm in because I'm finally becoming the me I dreamt of... in my beautiful brown skin. And I hope that if you aren't already there, you are getting much closer to a better, more happier you. And whatever background you are, or if you've had similar experiences to me growing up, that you are loved and will continue to be just the way you are. Real love starts and ends with acceptance.
Be blessed.
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