Let me ask you a question. If you could change your race for one day, would you do it?
Most people I’ve asked that question usually say, “No, absolutely not. I love the skin I’m in and I’d feel like I’m betraying my culture and all that I hold dear by changing my race.” When my mom first asked me this question, I completely agreed with the above statement; why would I want to distance myself from the African American community? I respect and admire all cultures and races, but I love being Black way too much to ever think about changing the color of my skin.
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Though I thought I was steadfast in my answer, I began to contemplate the matter more a few days later, as I began to consider the state of my people. All the killing, the constantly watching my back, the perpetual feeling of helplessness...Needless to say, my answer quickly changed.
As I continued to formulate a cohesive, new response to the question, I simplified my answer and posed another question; what if I could simply molt my skin and walk around unaffected by my epidermal exterior for a day? What if I could literally peel my skin off and explore the world in my fleshy interior, revealing a lighter, pale layer underneath my brown top coat? Would I become even more of an outsider or become protected by my newfound invisibility cloak of flesh? It’s a no-brainer that some days I wish the color of my skin didn’t dictate the safety of my everyday activities, my everyday decisions and my basic human rights. Being Black in America is hard, almost impossible at this point. Step outside and you might get shot. Walk down the street, get harassed and probably shot. Drive your car down the block and maybe get pulled over, then get shot. Oh, the things I’d give to know what it feels like to be free and to exist without fear of being perpetually being just out of the grim reaper’s grasp. Just for a day, I wish I could hang up my skin on a coat rack and freely explore the world through the eyes of those who are granted the privilege to do so. For I am unseen, but hunted when it’s convenient.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Being Black is my favorite thing about my identity, as I mentioned in my previous existential crisis at the beginning of this article. As a Black woman, I’ve had to endure a multitude of experiences both positive and negative at the age of 21.
“You're pretty for a Black girl.”
“You're super athletic only because you're Black.”
“You only got into that private high school because you're a minority.”
“You people of color brought ‘it’ upon yourself…”
I’d have no trouble writing a novel on what it means to be Black in America, believe me. Though I’m more than proud to call myself African American, I still long for a mere 24 hours in which I could not exactly ignore my race, but temporarily escape it and experience life through an untainted lens.
At this point, I’m sure you’re thinking, “Wow, this girl is crazy. Who would be so bold and ungrateful to say they don’t want to be part of their own race?” But put yourself in my shoes for a minute. Imagine looking in the mirror every day, seeing your dark, chocolate skin only to think in the back of your mind that you are not beautiful in anyone’s eyes but those of your own people. Imagine grabbing fists full of your curly, thick hair, only to know deep down that although you love every strand, others see it as nothing more than a nappy, kinky mess atop your head. Imagine being forced to navigate the world with careful motivation behind your every move, thinking that an act could cost you your life. Imagine feeling the burden of your people resting upon your shoulders every time you open your mouth in a class, making you the token spokesperson for your entire race. Imagine walking through malls and stores and being followed or stared down by workers who think you just might steal something. Imagine seeing your people being killed left and right every, single day and not being able to do anything about it. Imagine being told, “All lives matter, get over yourselves,” when you attempt to mourn and positively requite the countless deaths of your brown brothers and sisters. Imagine living through a modern day civil rights era with no escape. Imagine being pulled over by the police, guilty of no crime except the unavoidable hue of your skin and knowing you can’t defend yourself no matter what you say. Imagine being labeled as “lazy,” “stupid,” “incapable” and “uneducated” based on your cultural affiliation. Imagine a bad dream that you can never escape. And imagine that everything I just said is either ignored, unaffirmed or dubbed as “just another minority complaint.” Just imagine…
This is what it means to be “Black in America.” Recognizing you’re strong and unbreakable because you’re just that, Black, but recognizing that protecting your identity is one hell of a journey. Still think I’m crazy? Now, think… If you had the chance to change your race, would you? If so, would you choose to be Black?
