At one of my high schools, I was the only African American student in the whole school. Even if you want to count the elementary and middle schools, I was one of four.
When I first arrived, I heard the usual.
“So, you like fried chicken, right? What about watermelon? Kool-aid? I know you must like grape soda! Haven’t you ever watched Madea? Oof, you’re the whitest Black guy I’ve ever met. At least you play basketball.”
At least I play basketball, huh?
Because I’m Black, I’m supposed to enjoy fried chicken, watermelon, Kool-aid, grape soda, Madea, and basketball.
The jokes that were supposed to be casual ended up being some of the most hurtful. I never knew what to say. When you’re the only Black person you know in the whole school, who do you go to when you’re feeling frustrated about things you just can’t articulate yet?
I was 15 when I heard this one for the first time:
My friend dropped a pencil outside while I was walking by. Instinctively, I kindly bent down to reach for it, before I heard her say, “Yeah, that’s right. Pick it up!”
“Okay, that’s weird. I’m the one being kind here,” I said to myself.
“Because...you’re Black!”
My face went sour. I immediately straightened up to my full height and walked away, but not before she burst out laughing and ran after me.
“Phil, Phil! It’s a joke! I swear!”
I had had enough.
Because I’m Black, I automatically have to oblige to picking up your junk from the floor?
No, a white person didn’t say this.
And for that reason, I’m so glad that I’m seeing my Latina/o friends using their platforms to fight this racist disease in their own context. I’m glad to see many of them welcoming Afro-Latinas/os into their midst. It’s about time.
Photo by Feliphe Schiarolli on Unsplash
At one of my high schools, I was taught English by a White woman. She held biases she may not have realized, yet I still do not make excuses for her.
“I want all of you, for homework, to finish Section 3A of the workbook and write a poem,” she told us at the end of class. “I want you to get creative! Bring us all back something fun, sad, angry—whatever it may be. We’ll read it in our next class.”
So, I went back home. I was excited. I sat down in front of my computer and typed away this Edgar Allen Poe-esque poem about the dark death of Ludwig van Beethoven while he played Moonlight Sonata for the last time.
A little intense, I know. I’m very melancholy and very dramatic.
The next day, I walked to my English class with a pep in my step. I was eager to show off the masterpiece I had created. I waited for my turn—hoping we’d still have time to get to me (last name struggles). I sat with my paper folded in front of me, biding my time.
The teacher finally called my name.
It was my time to shine.
I took my place in front of the class, requested that the lights be turned off, and I read my piece.
The class ate it up! They applauded and my friends nodded their heads in enjoyment. I was having a real, great moment until—
“Very well done, Phillip. Yet, I sense you could not have possibly written that. Tell me where you got it from and I’ll forgive you this one time,” came the voice of my teacher. She sat behind her desk with something between a glare and a frown of disbelief etched across her brow.
I was caught off guard, yet I met her steely gaze with my own defiance.
“Well, I-I wrote it. I wrote it last night just like you told us to do. I did this all myself!” I stammered. Was she really asking me this in front of the whole class?
“Mmhmm. I don’t think you’re telling the truth. You don’t need to try and impress the class or me, for that matter. Everyone is just sharing something they wrote. This is not a time to be better than everyone else. It’s just about sharing our first poems.”
I tried to counter, but she held up her hand. “I won’t ask you to redo it, but it will have a negative effect on your grade if you do this again. Now, let’s see everybody’s workbooks, please?”
Of course, I completed my workbook at the beginning of the semester and she was just checking it for the first time. I was extremely fearful. If she saw that I had finished before everyone, would she believe I cheated again, somehow? My fears were confirmed during the next class.
“It seems that everyone has completed up to Section 3A in the workbook. Yet someone has finished their entire book. Phillip, care to explain?” She said, holding open my workbook to the class.
“This is one of my favorite subjects, so I got excited and finished it all during Labor Day weekend,” I replied promptly.
“And where did you find the answers? I took the time to look through this and you’ve barely answered any of these questions incorrectly!”
“My...brain,” I replied slowly.
“Then how did you finish before Mr. Wright?” (Cue the nearest White dude who actually would just find the answers on the dark web and brag about it).
My teacher rolled her eyes, exasperatedly. “There’s just no way you’re that good. No way you’re better than them...” she trailed off and continued her lesson.
This was one of the first times a teacher had insinuated that I couldn’t possibly be better than my White counterparts at something. Are you sure you wrote that?
Of course I’m sure!
Because I’m Black, I can’t be a good writer?
Because I’m Black, I’ve been labeled a controversial figure at my alma mater by some students, faculty, and staff for celebrating blackness as well as inclusion (Here’s a reminder that people do lie on anonymous Instagram confessions pages—more about this later).
Because I’m Black, I freeze up around law enforcement.
Because I’m Black, I avoid the neighborhood at night where they put a Confederate flag proudly next to the American flag.
Because I’m a Black historian, I seek to bring context for our struggle...even when my alma mater doesn’t believe me or my truths.
Because I’m Black, I recognize that no one will ever give us credit for our work.
Because I’m Black, they will ask me to help them understand diversity and inclusion, but they will have their best interests in mind, and not my own.
Because I’m Black, I demand inclusion of all people, not just the majority.
Because I’m a Black Seventh-day Adventist Christian, I ask our people to not only read and research biblical history and Jesus’ life, but I ask them to research Adventist history. Adventists, the people that fought for abolition and believed in establishing an HBCU in the South to bring healing to a race destroyed by chattel slavery. Adventists, the people that once championed anti-racism. Adventists, the people who gradually forgot their anti-racist heritage after the death of their messenger. Adventists of the South who refused to desegregate, hung Confederate flags on their campuses, were complicit with the KKK monitoring their campuses, would not allow Blacks and Whites to room together (unless the White person’s family was okay with it, because they didn’t ask the Blacks). Adventists of the South who said, when Blacks tried to desegregate their churches, “I have six bullets for six n-words.” The research is out there. Reclaim the best of our history and work to make all of it common knowledge. Because I’m a Black Seventh-day Adventist Christian and historian, I believe in protest and progress.
Because I’m a fellow human, I just ask you to listen to me. Listen to us.
Seeing so many of you post in solidarity definitely makes me happy that you’re getting it now, but it’s taken me a really long time to process my feelings. It’s actually a little bit painful. So many of us have strategically planned, asked you to listen, asked you for your help to combat institutional racism, asked you just to show up and be present at our events, asked you to recommend us after doing so much in making our spaces more inclusive on your behalf....but now you get it. Now, you’re ready to implement changes and change all of your plans to incorporate our lives.
I’m happy for you, I really am. But I do have to say that I’m still so hurt. Remember those of us who worked so hard for you to get it.
Because I’m Black, I just wanted you to believe me and use your voice and power to make changes.
Because you’ll never experience this, I hope you’ll be more empathetic now. I hope you never have to experience any part of this. I hope you spend time educating yourself. I hope you challenge the status quo. I hope you challenge our police system, housing, education, and all of it.
I also really hope that when it all hits you, you’ll also realize that you don’t have to wake up to all of this. You have the option to rest. You have the option to sit this one out. I hope you don’t. We can’t.
I hope you understand that it’s easier for you in America:
Because I’m Black, I’ll have people make “jokes” as I bend down to pick something up for them out of kindness.
Because I’m Black, I’ll have teachers that tell me I can’t possibly be better than my White counterparts in class.
Because I’m Black, some women will tell me that they don’t prefer me and I am not attractive to them. “I don’t date Black guys.”
Because I’m Black, I might hear whispers of the N-word as I score a basket on the opposing basketball team.
Because I’m Black, I’m tired of having to explain myself and my context.
I hope you see me. I hope you see our struggle. In all this, remember that you have the ability to turn this all off when you walk outside. Before they see anything about you: whether you have a disability, you have a criminal record, you own a Fortune 500 company, or you attend church every week, etc. They’ll see your skin first. They won’t see you as they see me.
Because, you’re not Black.
