I grew up in Florida and lived in a Puerto-Rican household with my single mother, my half-brother, and his father. My father wasn’t around, but he did leave one thing to me: his skin color. But being the only Black family member wasn’t something I particularly thought about until this one day in middle school. My step-father had come to pick up my brother and I after school. We would wait outside on these concrete slabs with all the “Car-Riders.” As we got into my step-father’s car, one of the younger students goes, “Whoa! Are you brothers? Why are you Black and you White?” The three of us exchanged glances and my step-father drove away with no answer. The question stuck with me though. I remember being confused and extremely uncomfortable, as if I never realized I was Black. You may be thinking how, after 11 or so years of life, I was just now realizing my appearance. I had always known what I looked like, but I never really understood how I looked in relation to those around me. We never talked about Blackness in my household so, to an extent, I was largely ignoring a part of my being. I’m Black, but what does that mean? To that little girl who asked, it was just about color. For me, it turned into hounding my mother about the other half of my background, my culture, and what was behind my skin. My mother couldn’t really answer any of my questions besides my descent (Jamaicans make some noise), so life went on.
But life went on with self-hatred. My experience taught me why people are quicker to hate and fear the unknown rather than love. I would joke with my friends that I was the Whitest Black person they knew. I would avoid acting “ghetto” and painted my life at home to be more extravagant than it really was. I would look at myself in the mirror and wish I had lighter eyes, light skin, and slicked back hair like Justin Bieber (2012 vibes!).
Once I got to high school, I began to dismantle that internalized racism as I surrounded myself with people who looked and felt similarly to me. The unknown began to feel less daunting. I also had a Black teacher, Mrs. Smithson, my freshman and junior year who taught me what truly tapping into that Blackness meant. By the end of high school, I had grown a love for myself, within and without. I had also realized the large role my community had in my development (or lack thereof) and began to distance myself. I saw the end of high school as a chance to escape branch out and discover myself. Well, here I am.
The Black effect (Thank you Jay-Z & Beyoncé) is something very real, very potent. My younger-self felt my body was obscuring who I was within. But I realized that there was no internal and external; each and every part of me was me. And once I came to terms with who I was — embraced who I was — the effect was love. Passionate love. Powerful love. Black love. My younger-self would be shocked to see it. Shocked to see how something like skin color could shape your life and your view of the world around you.
With this column, I want to celebrate with my Black and Brown brothers, sisters and siblings on this campus. I want to relish in Black and Brown love with them and what it means to be passionate about the melanin that pigments us and the forces that build us into who we are. I want to show the rest of Stevens a voice that is commonly ignored, misheard, or misunderstood by giving them a raw look into the various stories from people on this campus. Fusing these together, I aim to show community members what it means to love yourself. To feed your body with warmth and adoration. Because the only way to love the outside is to realize that the glory is in you. Period.
P.S. Keep in mind that these viewpoints/experiences are my own and are not necessarily representative of those of the Black or Brown persons at Stevens and beyond.
Be First to Comment