How Could Our Favorite Palatable Black Person Still Be Black?

In a world where our words are silenced, our feelings disregarded, and our experiences belittled, where are women of color to go? 

I remember the moment I realized how alone I was. For the better part of my life, I had attended a predominantly white private school in my hometown of Montgomery, Alabama. In fact, the five years I was not there are attributed to my mother’s decision to homeschool me. My school held countless memories and friendships, but during the time I needed genuine support the most, it seemed to vanish. Maybe it was never truly there. 

As is the case for many minorities, my innocence, which had been continuously chipped at throughout my childhood, was officially splintered after the 2016 presidential election. It was not until this moment that I understood how many of my classmates lacked the perspective to see me as a whole person. They did not have to worry about politics, nor did their skin color present a barrier to them at every turn. In its barest bones, our definition of identity was on two different playing fields, especially in the realm of politics. 

For them, it was difficult to understand that race could be more than black and white feel-good documentaries about the Civil Rights Movement. In their eyes, their socioeconomic status and the power that stemmed from it (especially in a town like Montgomery) held the same value as my perspective as a Black woman when discussing the topic of race. When you have few to no visible oppressors, it is easier to create your own antagonist rather than recognize your proximity to that role. 

They had the luxury of laughing when Trump spoke so disparagingly about other communities; after all, what could be funnier than watching people struggle beneath your throne? 

What made this time period even more damaging was that I had nowhere to turn. In a space where teachers and students alike high-fived at the result of the election, it felt like any hope for a saving grace was becoming dimmer and dimmer. The only faculty members of color were those on custodial staff. I learned very quickly that my needs would not be met, as there was little reason for them to be noticed. 

I had always known that I was different from my classmates of course. Whether it be a conversation with my mom in the second grade about how my body was and would always be different for the other girls, or when I would desperately push my non-existent straight hair behind my ears like all my friends (if you’re having trouble with the imagery, my hair was relaxed and always pulled into a ponytail or a braid, I could not wear it down like all my friends would), I had been reminded time and time again that I was not them. Though these wounds may not compare to the microaggressions I would face later on, their effect culminated into a message that I heard loud and clear: 

You will never be one of them. 

It did not matter that I knew most of my classmates since I was four. It did not matter that I wore Chaco’s, shopped at Vineyard Vines, or did my best to fix my hair like my friends. It did not matter that my speech was similar to theirs, the overall result of a strategic assimilation to make my life in a PWI easier. Although all of these performances made me palatable, they did not change my skin and thus they did not change me. Trinity was still Black, and to be Black was to be an “other.”

Of course, here emerges  an interesting dichotomy. Every single person knew that I was different, that I was not one of them. Everyone knew that there was a reason why I was often the friend not posted on social media, why I would not get invited to the lake house or beach house, or why acting the same as my friends would  not yield  the romantic interest of my white male classmates. 

Yet, somehow, this common analysis seemed to end when it came to my differing opinions. How could I possibly think that Donald Trump was not the saving grace for our country? How could I not be on Brett Kavanaugh’s side during his Senate trial? How could I not be completely disgusted by Colin Kaepernick kneeling for the pledge? 

I know now that these were not the right questions, or at least, not the questions they truly wanted answered. The bigger question stemmed from their stripping of my identity. 

How could our favorite palatable Black person still be Black? 

Fast forward to now. I am attending yet another PWI, the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa,  and while things have certainly improved, there is still that much farther to go. I still operate in many white spaces and although I found more footing and self confidence than I ever had in high school, the effect of lacking a space is a consistent weight on my chest. 

For minorities, and in this case specifically Black women, we are held to an incessantly unfair standard. Whether it be the strong Black woman, the Mammy, or the angry Black woman, we are routinely subject to these stereotypes, forced to deal with the aftermath of them. Especially as a Black woman in positions of leadership, the pressure of becoming an end-all, be-all symbol of the entire community is suffocating. The line to walk between being independent and not caring about the fracture of someone else’s preconceived notions and trying desperately to put your best face forward and not disrupt any future opportunities for your community is always shifting. It’s nearly impossible to maintain my balance. 

Black, indigenous, and other women of color need a safe space. We need an area where we can vent, cry, or yell. We need a place to be free. We deserve to be our complete and total selves, to have a break from serving as a means to an end for someone else’s agenda. I should not have had to subconsciously condition myself for years to curate my emotions for the company around me. I should not struggle today to show any breakdown in vulnerability, even when I sit by myself in my room. The trauma we have suffered should not be disregarded like a cut on the knee from childhood.

All women of color deserve to feel celebrated for who they are, not for what box they checkmark. We are complex, we are unique, and we are human. It was not fair to our ancestors and it is not fair to us now. My very existence and way of moving throughout the world is not rationale for you to be threatened. 

At the end of the day, I have just one more thing to say. 

We will never be them. We are all we got.