This Blackness of Mine

It is something I can never escape, this Blackness of mine.

I wake up Black, peering through groggy eyes at any new reports of Black men and women being legally slain, their killer's actions justified through the coded language of racism: "Thug," "criminal tendency," "looked dangerous," and so forth, and I casually wonder over breakfast if it will be me today on the news, my parents crying over my body as opposing images of me in a graduation gown and me in a black miniskirt are flashed on CNN and Fox News, respectively.

I go to class Black, often the only slash of pigment in an otherwise pallid landscape, holding my head high and working twice as hard, only to have people ask me if I like to eat collard greens and accuse the slaves of being inept for not freeing themselves.

I walk around campus and the world Black, receiving cold sideways glances as I walk through the aisles of convenience stores, having doors slammed in my face even though biologically, beneath this criminal brown skin, I am a woman and therefore a lady who should be treated with respect under the code of "Southern gentility." I suppose that doesn't apply to me. I am ignored by White classmates, standing with their gaggle of friends, as they are ashamed to acknowledge that they could ever have come in contact with someone like me, a dark contaminant in a pristine world.

I walk home Black, fearing that it is my day to be called a nigger by a drunken boy leaning out of the side of a speeding pickup truck. Of course, it could always be worse. I could be the villanous "dark-skinned male," the curiously anonymous rapist, thief, and carjacker whose description mysteriously matches the appearance of all 2,000 Black men on campus (since we all look alike anyway).

If I ever have children, I will be forced to fear for them always, worrying about losing them not only to the universal dangers of kidnapping, illness, and injury, but also to police brutality and being targeted by hate groups. And there will be absolutely nothing I can do-- no matter how well I dress them or teach them how to speak or move them to "safe" neighborhoods, there is always the distinct possibility that I may have to bury my own children.

And I will die Black, hopefully later rather than sooner (though there is no guarantee), having lived a life mired in racism, prejudice, violence, cruelty, and perceived inferiority, simply because of the genetically insignificant (but socially devastating) differences in the shade of my skin and the kink of my hair. It's enough to drive someone mad.

But it doesn't, this Blackness.

This life that I did not choose, but am incredibly grateful for, has made me aware. I am aware of atrocities and injustice that affect not only subjugated groups in America, but also worldwide (the sufferings of those in Hong Kong, Palestine, and Mexico currently come to mind). I am unafraid to stand for what I know to be right and true because what is the worst that could happen? I could be hated? Persecuted? Abused? Disrespected? Stereotyped? For me and others like me, this is simply a daily part of my reality.

And now, as people of color and other oppressed groups unite to protest the killings of Mike Brown, Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Ryo Oyamada, Aiyanna Jones, and hundreds of others, we are met with opposition and indifference. Such a response is expected from White people who neither have ever or will ever want anything to do with people of color or their unique struggles. Yet, the minimal to nonexistent response from White celebrities such as Kim Kardashian, Eminem, and Iggy Azalea (who implied that the slaying of Mike Brown was not "relevant" to her life) who built their brands, careers, and financial empires by capitalizing on the popularity and "cool" of Black culture is highly telling. As Paul Mooney said, "Everybody wants to be black, but nobody really wants to be black."

Just as during the Harlem Renaissance, when curious White tourists ventured into Harlem to patronize the segregated Cotton Club and watch Duke Ellington, Count Basie, and others perform to get the "thrill" of Black urban life, many modern White people proudly blast "Trap" music from their car speakers, try to sag their pants, adopt "blaccents" to varying degrees of offensiveness, and throw "Thug Life" costume parties (see Dear White People) to revel in the most stereotypical and easily commodified aspects of Black culture. However, when the necessity arises for these same individuals to recognize and check their privilege as White people and stand in solidarity with the people from whom they procured much of their success and entertainment, their response is to question the "relevance" of social and political equality or distort the central premise of a protest so that it fits within their narrow comfort zone of racial progress (such as with the substitution of the hashtag #AllLivesMatter for the original and significant #BlackLivesMatter).

It is impossible to force these individuals to recognize the inherent flaws in their beliefs or actions, simply because the nature of White Privilege allows them to live their entire lives without the slightest inkling of what it is like to have one's race function permanently as an unofficial rejection letter, indicator of guilt, symbol of intellectual incompetence or inferiority or death sentence. However, as individuals who are motivated to promote racial equality-- both White people and people of color-- it is critical that we recognize that Blackness and its social consequences are not merely something you can remove at the end of the day or retire from after a long, successful career.

And if someone is unwilling to acknowledge that unquestionable truth, then perhaps it is time that we begin questioning when it became acceptable in our society to profit and derive enjoyment from the legitimate suffering of others.