This is a guest blog post by Nebraska Appleseed Immigrants & Communities Program Intern Kenzie Spigner
I remember one Spring day my junior year of high school, I was sitting in the back of my math class. I asked Michael, the boy that I had a crush on at the time, for help on an assignment, and I will never forget the words he said to me next. He said “only if you give me $5 and pick my cotton”. Not only did he have the audacity to throw centuries of my people’s oppression and enslavement in my face, but he did so in the same breath that he asked for $5 that just as easily could have been found in the street.
You might be wondering what I said next. Did I raise Hell and scream at him with every fiber in my body? Did I take to social media and try to cancel him in front of all our peers? Or did I report him to the office? Well, I did none of this. I sat there in shock and horror as the rest of my class turned their attention to me. I can still feel the stares of everyone in the room waiting for my next move, but to both their surprise and mine, there wasn’t one. All I could do was look at my teacher for some sign of empathy or justice. I had hoped she would say something to him and immediately send him to the office for one of the most egregious things he could have possibly said to me. Instead, she immediately broke eye contact with me and looked down at her papers as though she had heard nothing. I turned back to my assignment, still confused and choking back tears at the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. It was at that moment, that I knew I was utterly alone.
Being on the other side of prejudice is not a great feeling. That’s something nearly everyone can agree on, but what people don’t know is how lonely it truly is. I grew up in the affluent, white suburbia of West Omaha. As a child, I was afforded many opportunities through my education. I was fortunate enough to grow up with parents that supported my every ambition. Yet, as I made my way through high school, the evils of the world that my parents tried to shield me from as a child started rearing their ugly heads.
I learned quickly how I was perceived in this world. I was either the token Black girl who made the school seem diverse, or I was the helpless Black girl who was probably uneducated and wouldn’t succeed in high school on her own, or I was the angry Black girl who was quick tempered and aggressive. So, I didn’t know where I fit into the puzzle at school, but even at home, I never felt Black enough. Throughout high school, I constantly struggled with my identity, something most teenagers are probably familiar with. However, my own identity crisis was exacerbated by the fact that I didn’t know how a key part of my identity, one that I couldn’t change, fit into who I was. I constantly searched for what it meant to be Black, but growing up in such a predominantly white environment, I didn’t have much to reference. I, of course, had my parents, but I didn’t see them as Black, I saw them as my parents. I didn’t have much to refer to in the media. I didn’t get to grow up with a mentor that looked like me, who could help explain why the color of my skin made me so different compared to my peers. Further, I didn’t have a mentor who could explain why that difference made some people so angry.
When I got to college, I started being able to forge my own experience. The pressures I felt suddenly lifted as I made a conscious decision to pursue endeavors that made me happy. While being Black is a huge part of my identity, one that I could never separate from myself, I am far more diverse than just that. I’m a musician who can play beautiful chords on the violin. I am an athlete who, even after ending her official athletic career, still brings back that fervor and competitiveness in friendly games of spike ball. I am an older sister who is a mentor for her younger sister. I am my mom’s best friend. I am someone who enjoys servicing the community, and making people smile in whatever way I can.
Being Black is not just about the color of my skin, or about the music that we produce. It isn’t just the fact that this entire country was built on our backs. It is about the experiences that we collectively share.
The story that I just shared is not a unique one. In fact, it is more common than I would like to admit, but what’s more important is what this story means to little Black boys and girls across the nation.
What Michael said to me was not just a racist comment he threw out there to be funny, it was an attack on my identity. It was the fact that he was the physical manifestation of every microaggression, every insecurity, every humiliation that I experienced in regards to my Blackness. That day happened nearly 5 years ago, but it is still something I carry with me to this day. In fact, this is a moment I will surely carry with me for the rest of my life. That moment, that feeling of both embarrassment and isolation, I vowed to never feel that way again. I promised myself that I would be a better advocate for both myself and the Black community.
After being able to look outside of my experience and reflect on the isolation and solitude I felt, I realized that it was important for me to share my story. Being able to tell people my own experience was empowering in and of itself, but it is also educational for bystanders and white allies that don’t truly understand what it means to be discriminated against or face prejudice. So, I hope for this Black History Month, I was able to give you more perspective on what it is like to grow up as a Black woman in white America.
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As Black History Month concludes but our learning continues, here are some additional resources the author suggests:
