Do you know that saying, “I’m black and I’m proud,” well for a long time I wasn’t so proud of my ethnicity/race because I was actually afraid of it (this will make sense soon). Much of my writing is memoir about my experiences growing up and as I’m sure you could have guessed being black was somehow always at the forefront of my experiences. It’s really the first thing people notice about others (yes, even you), whether you like it or not, upon first sight you’re grouped with a certain race and gender and then by default you’re linked to a million stereotypes (and luckily if you’re a black girl 90% of those stereotypes are negative, lit, lit)  that people use to gauge how they interact with you and make certain assumptions about who you are.

Growing up, non-black people would ask me things like “Is your hair real?” (if you have to know, the answer is maybe, but mind your own business), “Do all your siblings have the same dad?”, “But you’re not that kind of black right?” (because the other type is bad? What’s good with you?)  and a personal favorite: “So do you, like, live in the hood?” (yes, and my street name is C-Killa) . As if all these random and awkward questions weren’t enough other black other little black kids made me feel excluded from my race too (this was before everyone was calling each other black queens, and talking about black girl magic etc.), “You know Courtney is a white girl name” (oh? But I’m a black girl so?), “Why do you talk like a white girl?” (You mean speak articulately? Idk, man), “Do you even listen to any black music?”, “You’re not really black, you’re lightskin because the white is seeping out of you” (this was actually pretty clever, I’d respond snarkily, but I’m still in awe (it’s been 6 years)). It was really just super fun stuff coming from all different kinds of people, which made me have low self-esteem and basically avoid social interaction (no worries, I’m back and I’m betta).

I didn’t know it back then, but whenever I wrote about how I’d had a bad day in my diary it was linked back to my race in some way. I always hated how much my race defined me in the eyes of others, especially since somehow it also became an obstacle. Here’s an excerpt from a piece I wrote about 2 years ago, for an assignment where I was told to reflect on my transition into high school:

“Exiting a school where being black was the norm and entering BHSEC where I was the only black person in most of my classes was an intense change. I didn’t even recognize the extreme change until saying “Is it because I’m black?,” in a class was viewed as a serious question to the teacher, as I was the only black student in class, rather than the classic joke it was in my old school. I remember posting a picture with white girls from my advisory and receiving comments from my middle school friends like; “You’re finally with your people” and “Lmao I guess you’ve made it to where you belong.” I actually figured the same things, because these girls didn’t mention my race, they didn’t even seem to notice at first, and I didn’t feel left out because of that. This only lasted a short while, however, I was soon exposed to the fact that race was very much noticeable to them, and the questions began. I got the “So, what are you?” from many people of all backgrounds.”

Today, I still write about the struggles of being black and a woman, but also about what that struggle means on more of a national and communal level, due to all the great stuff that’s been happening to people like me (and how much people like to make excuses for murders I guess).