As I sit in class for the second day in a row as we discuss this, all I can do is feel your eyes on me.

I sit here thinking, “Yes, I know we are talking about black-face. No, I don’t necessarily feel like commenting on it at this time. Thank you.”

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But, my lack of eye contact and elaborate responses are not enough for you as you continue to stare me down as you interrogate the class about the possible meanings and why, through its historical context, it was so important for our characterto use it in his performance.

You begin to list off what the “black-face” character represented making sure after each descriptor to add, “....at the time. We know how offensive it is now,” with a nervous giggle that makes my face grow hot. You say that “at the time”, the black man was seen as lazy, naive, and daft and the black woman as easy, fun, and childlike.

As you say this, I feel myself tensing up and my lips begin to purse because these are still descriptors some people use today to describe black people.

But as you go on, you continue to dart your eyes at me every now and then as I scroll down my Facebook Timeline trying to find a way, anyway to escape this discussion that portrays my race in such a disgusting and degrading way.

You keep talking. I keep scrolling breaking down the class into 5 minute sections in my head praying that I will power through once again.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, the class is quiet and the room is staring at me. I have decided to raise my hand. I have taken it upon myself to offer up a response about what it means for one of our female characters being described as the "perfect darkie” for her carefree nature that suited the white people at the time. I commented on the fact that even during those times, to be black was not much different from today. There is always the fear of not being black enough. The fear of not making it in a world that is seemingly against you and your little community that is trying to become someone or do something. The fear of letting your whole race down by doing this or not doing that, by not giving back enough to where you came from, or by not using the opportunities given to you to make a difference.

And I realized that that was why I raised my hand. I raised my hand out of fear of letting my race down by not defending them. I raised my hand to combat the horrible 1920s descriptors she was saying about my people to my 25 person class with 2 chocolate drops in the sea of vanilla by starting with the phrase, “As a black woman of today…”. I raised my hand in that moment because I felt the need to defend my race because it still feels like to this day, especially in the deep south, that many still don’t see me as their equal - partially because I am a woman and partially because I black.

I felt in that moment I had to educate them on cultural appropriation in the Jazz Age and give them examples of it today. I had to educate them on the fact that Kylie Jenner, in fact, did not invent cornrows and despite popular belief, she is not a “light skinned black woman”. She is white and much like Marc Jacobs, they think the best way to glorify a culture is to push it in the limelight without properly sourcing where it came from.

I’m just saying, if I did that on a paper I would be expelled and my whole future would be at stake, but because “paying tribute” to a culture without actually attributing what you are paying tribute to is fine while it rakes in millions. I might go talk to the Provost next because that sounds like a pretty lucrative, promising and stress-free career that should be highlighted in school. But I digress.

I had to educate them on the fact that there is such a thing as a care-free black woman, as exemplified by the extraordinary Zora Neale Hurston. As they say, you can’t be both angry and black, especially not as black woman. I had to remind them that even then, Black was magic, and it was for damn sure gold.

Sue Sylvester was right when she said, “Blacks and gays make culture.”