While moving to America held lots of marvelous attractions, such as cars for transportation, food on every corner and a holiday that celebrated turkeys — going to the schools in my new home eventually posed challenges. When I entered my first American public school, I was eager to make friends and learn more about this great country. My first day in the school system was everything I ever dreamed it would be — all eyes on me, new friends, nice teachers and best of all mathematics. The fifth grade was a blast, so you can imagine how excited I was for middle and high school!
I quickly learned in middle school that I had been unknowingly situated in a place resembling an invisible box. If I didn’t stay in that box, then I would attract unwanted attention. For example, every time I asked my teachers a question, an audible groan would fill the room from the rest of the students with mumbles of, “Oh, here she goes again. That was a dumb question. Did they not teach her that in Africa?” At one point, in an attempt to fit in, I vividly recall begging my mom to let me try out for cheerleading when I was in the seventh grade, and her response was, “No, I don't want you to get hurt by those girls." I asked her why she thought that they would hurt me and she replied because they were jealous of me. I thought my mom was crazy. Jealous? Of me? Far from it, I thought. I barely had any friends and the ones I did have made comments that made me uncomfortable. “Why do you talk like that? Why do you like that weird food? Why do you dress like that?” I was still a young girl who didn’t understand what was so bad about how I looked. Looking back I see this as cultural ignorance. But at the time, it simply hurt.
To this day, I still don’t completely grasp why people feel free to comment openly on my ethnicity or how I look. It’s not easy being a minority and growing up in a little logging community that is located between two Native American reservations. The racism in my American hometown is historical and still alive. For instance, every time I step into a room for the first time, I see looks of skepticism and curiosity all around me, nervous glances being passed on from person to person as if to say, “Watch out, here comes trouble.” In high school, every time I got a new schedule and new teachers, it seemed like I would have to work harder than my fellow classmates to prove that I'm just as smart or hard-working as my peers — all because they already had a false stereotype of the ‘black girl’ in school.
I used to hate being black. Every aspect of it. How big my nose was, how the palms of my hands were much lighter than the backs of my hands, how my hair could never be straight no matter how hard I tried to make it that way, all this because I was so used to being defined by how I looked on the outside. At this point in time, my insecurities have little to do with my ethnicity and everything to do with who I’ve become. It’s funny how small comments and seemingly harmless judgments can cause such trauma in one person. Do I like being the strongly opinionated, independent, ambitious girl I’m portrayed as? No, and yes. The feeling is hard to explain, and all I can do is make sure to treat others the way I want to be treated because I wouldn’t wish, even on my worst enemy, my experiences. Life isn’t all about making others happy. If all you do is strive to please others, then you lose who you are as a person. To this day, I have yet to find myself. But when I do, I’ll know.
