One year ago, the realities of the two pandemics that plague our society, COVID-19 and systemic racism, felt more real than ever. Black Lives Matter protests primarily in response to the police murder of George Floyd but also to the murders of Ahmaud Aurbery, Rayshard Brooks, Breonna Taylor, and others prompted a large-scale, international racial awakening. During these heightened racial tensions, I was personally asked to write about it for my college alma mater’s newspaper. It was never published. So, I decided to post it here. Read until the end for my brief reflection on June 2020 and all that followed after.
Let’s get one thing clear, when you’re part of the tiny percentage of Black students at a predominantly white institution, in my case 4.5% of the near 10,000 undergraduates, you’re bound to have white friends. That, however, doesn’t mean navigating this inevitable reality is easy. In fact, it’s actually really hard.
Many of my white friends’ oblivion to how different the world is for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) is mentally exhausting and emotionally draining to witness. No matter how good of friends they might be, they’ll still never know what it’s like to hear, “You’re really pretty for a Black girl — you seriously aren’t mixed?” They’ve never considered skipping a social or networking event because they didn’t want to be the only white person in the room. They’ve never had “the talk.” People don’t harass them with countless “Can I touch your hair?” s. Plus, whenever they get tipsy, they retell their “super funny story” about the time in high school a “really cool cop” gave them a warning and told them to go home for smelling like weed. They just don’t get it.
My relationship with some of these very friends is rooted in the unstable foundation of white guilt. Recently, these friends have periodically checked in, mentioning something about their thinking of me “with everything going on” during these “unprecedented times”. The sudden extra attention and focus on my existence since June has been overwhelming. I’ve grown accustomed to being ignored. My entire life, I’ve been trained to cater to white fragility so as to not scare white people with the complexities of my feelings. I can’t express anger or passion without fearing I might be portrayed as another angry Black woman. I don’t have the luxury of being sad in public, as it is demanded of me that I constantly remain a strong Black woman. I can’t get frustrated with someone who has wronged me without them fearfully cringing and overcompensating with endless apologies. My truth, my being, my life has always been defined according to the scope of whiteness. For so long, I’ve only known myself and my Blackness as “not white.” I have grown to know white culture as the standard, therefore, rendering my entire existence as the antithesis of “normal.” I have no idea of who I am or what to feel outside of the crushing reality of white supremacy.
Now, when I’m told to freely express myself and not hold back, I don’t know what to do or what to say without an automatic censor. For so long, I’ve felt as though I couldn’t be “real” with even the closest of my white friends. I was afraid I would make them feel bad for their complacency in a system that has robbed me of my humanity. In not wanting to hurt their feelings, I’ve consistently suppressed my own. It’s reached the point where I no longer know how to genuinely answer “No, really, how are you?” I am absolutely clueless about what emotions of mine have been bubbling up for so long. Everyone asking me how I’m doing automatically assumes I must be experiencing some sort of rage or sadness. The reality is I’ve come to feel nothing. Every day, I become more numb to the genocide of my people. How do I possibly tell someone that through an Instagram DM?
I am just another threat to the whiteness they must preserve. I’ve been bombarded with rules and regulations on how to “control” and “maintain” my Blackness. Don’t curse or swear. Don’t laugh too loudly. Don’t wear short shorts. Don’t wear bright-colored lipstick. Don’t be so bossy. Don’t stay out too late. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Don’t be snappy. Don’t question authority. Don’t wear your natural hair in a professional setting. Don’t use slang. Don’t get so worked up. Don’t cry. Don’t be so loud. Don’t get too muscular. Don’t use big words. Don’t wear red or blue bandanas. Don’t stare. Don’t be so emotional. Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t look so mean. For twenty years, the world has labeled my Black body a burden, a criminal, and a thug. I must be detained and kept in restraints physically and mentally.
I was 11 years old when Trayvon Martin was murdered. Store managers follow me around whenever I shop. I wake up to photos of racist graffiti plastered on the walls of residence halls. The color of my skin somehow warrants violence against me. My white peers will never have to undergo the psychological warfare I wake up to every single day. I am forever afraid for the safety of my loved ones and myself to the point of nausea. Will they get home safe? Are they even safe at home? I regularly question my self-worth when overlooked by the notion of “All Lives Matter,” erasing a fatal kind of racism I endure. Is my life not important enough to critics who say “well, all lives matter” to get the specific support I need for survival? I repeatedly have to tell myself that I am much more than the racial trauma I’ve lived through. Can I go a day without reminders of all the things “wrong” with my Blackness? My entire life, society has defined me according to stereotypes, stigmas, and biases that are commonly attributed to my skin color. I don’t know who the hell I am outside of my Blackness.
As my white friends continue to finally wake up to my everyday reality, I know they’ll never truly grasp the pain I’ve felt. They don’t see their own faces in viral videos of victims gasping for air under a police officer’s knee. They can’t imagine what it’s like to wonder which parent you would cry for first when police officers shoot at your unarmed person. They don’t have to worry about hiding in their homes, fearing being lynched in 2020, after news of several “suicides” via hanging. Internally torn, I struggle to know if I can look to my white friends for the unconditional support I require. Would they hold me tightly to ground me amid a panic attack over fear for my Black life? Would they confront someone racially profiling me? Or, are they my friend so they might ease their white guilt for not having spoken up sooner? Are they speaking against racism because it has rendered me numb or because they want to join the bandwagon of #BlackLivesMatter? Are they my friend because they love Kathryn or because they love that Kathryn is Black?
Though I still love these friends for knowing how to make me laugh with funny memes, for rapping Roddy Ricch’s top hit “The Box” alongside me at 4 a.m., and for knowing proper mac and cheese is always baked, I still am hesitant to know how sincere these friendships are. The very group of people I’ve been forced to define myself around might not even look at me as a human. I might just be an object on which to unload their guilt and emotional turmoil. They could very well claim to be anti-racist when around me, then turn around and support the antics of their problematic white friends when I’m not there.
One minute they could be telling me they love and value me — the next minute they have nothing to say when their fellow white friend says, “Well, if he just complied, they wouldn’t have had to shoot.” Within the same scroll on Instagram, they’ll like my Black History Month post on the fetishization of Black people. Then, they’ll like the bikini selfie from their white friend who “coincidentally” has only ever dated Black quarterbacks and receivers during their college career. They’ll study with me for our midterm on Black history over lunch. On the same day, though, they’ll grab dinner with a white peer who “doesn’t understand” why they have to take a class on cultural diversity to graduate. These white friends will simultaneously “support” me while remaining friends with their problematic peers. How can they claim to want to be my comfort while silently perpetuating the very racism they see is causing me agony? Once again, I wonder, am I really their friend or a token Black person they keep at an arm’s distance as to avoid being called racist?
To my white friends, I want to make the following clear: The legitimacy of my existence or anyone else’s isn’t up for debate or a matter of politics. My Black life isn’t something you uplift only through a #blackouttuesday post or through your check-in messages. Activism also entails you cutting off those white friends who say the n-word whenever Chance the Rapper’s “Juice” comes on. It means calling out Meemaw at the Thanksgiving table when she says, “Well, all lives matter.” Caring about me and my Black life includes standing up to a professor and telling them how problematic it is to say, “I don’t want to discuss politics” when Black Lives Matter comes up.
To this day, I still have to work through trauma only brought about through the stupidity that is racism. Silence only perpetuates it. For me, racism is so overwhelming I’ve become emotionless and have detached myself from the news to avoid feeling the pain I’ve long suppressed. The truth is, I’ve grown accustomed to and comfortable with feeling nothing to avoid knowing of the deaths of more Black people who deserve to live. Sometimes, knowledge is anything but empowering — it’s crippling. It is too much to process every waking day. I can’t do it. I refuse to do it. I shouldn’t have to do it.
An update from my 2021 perspective: I no longer look to my white peers to understand me. Many white “friends” who checked in on me back in June 2020 have not commented about June 2021 racism in conversation or on their social media the way they did before. Most haven’t even reached out to me again in a year to even say “hi”. I am not surprised. A lot has changed in such a short span of time that somehow also feels like forever. Like I’m sure many would agree, I’m not the same person I was a year ago. I now understand that there can be no justice in a system built on injustice. Federal charges for George Floyd’s murderer are not progress but rather an attempt to appease the general public and quiet outrage over a crime that should never have happened.
I still have many of the same feelings I did in 2020, though. I am still confused and conflicted. I am also frustrated and overwhelmed. Now, in 2021, with the power of retrospect, I’ve learned who I can share my true feelings with and those with who I am better off wearing a mask around. Not everyone can handle the entirety of my reality. There’s no way to “simplify” or “break down” the myriad of emotions and fears that I experience daily. You either get it, or you don’t. (I will add that those who don’t get it are not absolved from their responsibilities of pursuing systemic change. They can still pursue action while not fully understanding the complexities of Black existence.) That doesn’t mean I’ve given up all hope or have cut myself off from educating anyone. Instead, I’ve decided to preserve myself and my mental wellness as a Black woman who faces the threat of being shot five times in her sleep by police (Breonna Taylor), or risk being sexually assaulted and killed after attending a BLM protest (Oluwatoyin Salau), or possibly be shot in the head and left in critical condition for being a leader of BLM (Sasha Johnson).
I am not responsible for fixing the ignorance of my white peers. It is not my job to “be patient with them”. I am more than an educational tool whose experiences “open their eyes”. I am a human being with boundaries and feelings. It’s okay for me to want better from my society and my white peers while also respecting that I alone cannot fix a 400-year systemic issue through “simple conversations”. 100 years after the Tulsa Massacre, I also realize that part of my ancestors’ dream was not only political and economic liberation but, more importantly, personal freedom. What my predecessors dreamed of is their power to choose their own paths for their lives without limits. I honor their dream by claiming autonomy over myself by setting limits, acknowledging my feelings, and valuing myself in a society built on my people’s degradation and oppression. My existence is not only resistance, but it is also an homage to all those before me whose existence was only a means of profit. By allowing myself to exist as a Black woman who can say “look it up yourself” or “let’s discuss that at another time” and have those boundaries be respected was a rarity just a few decades ago. Now, I can say “no” and have more people to choose from to confide in. In June 2021, while the COVID-19 pandemic threat in the US might be dwindling, I know racism persists. It will continue to do so until there is a radical change on every level, from interpersonal discourse to the existence of many nation-states as we know them. Until we get there, I will continue cultivating myself as a Black woman who is more than her relationships to her white peers and is her own individual deserving of peace of mind and space.
