I’ve been wanting to vocalize my experience with this, here, for a while, now. Talking about race is already a difficult topic to discuss, especially when you’re speaking in a room where no one looks like you. (Which is my usual experience, now.)
It’s easy to say it is all in our heads, “I’m sure it wasn’t meant that way”, etc. But we know when it was. There’s an inflection, there’s a gut feeling, and people of color can just tell.
I want to start by saying that I’m not perfect, either, and I don’t expect white people to get it right every time. I sometimes say things that may not come out right, but I make an effort to learn and correct myself when that occasionally happens. So, there is a way to be respectful and humble yourself when you’re wrong, and that’s an issue overall with humanity. Unfortunately, especially with white people.
My first experience with race was when I was maybe 7 or 8 years of age. We had just moved from Virginia to Georgia, and I started school in an elementary school in Buford, Georgia.
It was MLK Day, and they showed a documentary right before lunch about the civil rights movement. It was the first time I had seen the fire hoses, the dogs, Ruby Bridges, on a screen. Of course, I had learned about it in school. But to see it… that was something else. It made me extremely sad but also shocked. And how does an eight year old process shock? They talk about it.
Another schoolgirl was sat next to me in the cafeteria, who I considered a friend, and we talked a lot. She happened to be white and I happened to be black. I turned toward her and said “Can you believe that? We wouldn’t have even been allowed to be friends! What if that happened now?”
“Who cares,” she said, “it’s not happening now.”
I had always noticed the looks my family would get. My mom, being a mixed race woman herself but presenting white, and my Dad being a dark skinned black man, meant that we got looks pretty frequently. They were always with eyes filled with hatred. Maybe a little curiosity, at times, but a lot of hatred. Pair that with my Dad being in uniform, at times, and it was a visceral anger you could witness sometimes. As if, my Dad being a serviceman meant that he was less than or didn’t deserve the uniform.
So when we discussed this documentary about MLK it clicked; they’re all connected. It never occurred to me that people genuinely didn’t like us because of our race. My parents rarely ever made things about race, either. Whenever we experienced bad customer service, a dirty look, a nasty sneer, it wasn’t ever assumed it was because we were black. We all just assumed they were assholes.
Quite frequently in life I’ve been in all white spaces. I’m used to it. I was the only person of color in my classroom multiple times (counting all races, y’all.) So there is a lot of awkwardness every time the subject of racism comes up, everyone turns around in their desks to look at you. You somehow become the African American History historian in the 8th grade.
Once I decided that I would visit Paul, and he wanted me to come, race was the last thing on my mind. I was thinking about what I was going to wear, what we were going to do, and how best to make the most of our time together. Being long distance, we really only saw each other two weeks at a time with 6-8 months in between.
Then suddenly, a few days before the visit, I became extremely nervous to meet his family. Someone in my family asked if his family even likes black people, and I realized that I didn’t know. I could be walking right into the lions den.
Oh boy… did I.
I won’t get into that here in too much detail, but there were a lot of assumptions made about me based on zero fact.
What was frustrating was the assumptions and their micro aggressions that were tied with them. Being called a gold digger, being told I was rude (when I was choosing and making an effort to be as soft as possible), are just a couple examples.
Those really cut deep, too. They don’t bother me now, but if I was going to gold dig, wouldn’t you think I’d be going after, like an English lord or an oil prince?
Sigh… anyways…
“What I hope and wish for is that one day none of this sh*t will matter…”
With that came this insular feeling of my race now mattering more in a way that I was not used to thinking about. (Especially growing up in predominantly white spaces.) Racism in the UK is just… different.
In the US, at least before Trump, it was more covert. Outright racism like what you see from far right MAGA cult fanatics was not encouraged. They kept to themselves and other racists. You got dirty looks, sure, but never comments. I can count two times someone has said something racist to me in the US, and one of them was online in a voice call.
Racism in the UK is more overt. Not just eyes but also scoffs (really only from old white people). Annoyance from white women when I’m in spaces that, I guess, black and brown women aren’t normally in. Like, they’re surprised I’m also at the same nail salon..? Strange.
They don’t expect you to be educated, to speak eloquently, to be able to compose and write clearly, or anything above the bare minimum of their preconceived notion of black people. When you go against that, it doesn’t elevate their perception of black and brown people, either. Instead, they take you out of the box they assigned you and put you in the box next to it.
Y’all, I have to get a receipt everywhere, even though it’s wasteful, because if I don’t they will look at me weird and/or stop me. I make sure to have the receipt in my hands as I’m walking out of the store. I’m constantly getting profiled everywhere I go, and what stresses me out is the fact that I am not a thief! I pay for everything when I do self checkout, and somehow my basket is always the one “randomly” checked.
For my non-black and brown folks, you never had to think about that, huh?
Have you ever had someone not want to provide a service to you? All of the attendants at the nail shop seem annoyed when they have to do your nails?
That’s my experience, everywhere. You get used to it after awhile, to where you don’t notice it. Then, someone is with you who has never witnessed or experienced it, and you have to admit that it isn’t normal, but rather it’s just something you’ve gotten used to.
What I hope and wish for is that one day none of this shit will matter. Because why do you hate me over a different amount of melanin in my skin than yours? Why do you assume things about me and my life based on my skin? I don’t assume things based on yours. It’s actually the last thing I think about!
I think about your actions, your morals, the way you speak to service workers, what you say when you’re angry, etc. I summarise you based on your actions…not what you look like.
I hope that’s the default everywhere, for everyone, someday.
Will post September favourites at the end of this week! Would love to read your thoughts below.
See you next Sunday.
J
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