Life post-graduation is an exhilarating roller coaster ride for most students, and I was no different. To label this time as anything less than a whirlwind would be doing it an injustice considering the fact that in a measly fourteen days I was graduating with my masters, leaving my forever home of Maryland and embarking on a cross-country road trip to California with my boyfriend, my books and my boyfriend’s mom. I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit that until I was 22 I hadn’t spent more than five days away from home so my first few weeks across the country from all that was familiar was tough. More than a few days seemed like nothing more than a blur of furniture decisions, secret bathroom tears and taking the wrong exit on the freeway. I was sure the upcoming holiday and my birthday would trigger the first real wave of homesickness but my doubts were for naught and my first Fourth of July in California was a success. While I had spent days preparing myself for home, longing and the nostalgia that was sure to come, new friends, food and ever flowing drinks made the day as enjoyable as any back home. Even though I had been transplanted from one coast to another the red, white and blue camaraderie made me feel like I was still at home and on my own.
The next day, Alton Sterling was shot and killed in Louisiana. A mere twenty-four hours later, Philando Castile was shot and bled to death during a traffic stop. The feeling of togetherness had completely vanished and my emotions rolled in my stomach, tight as a peach pit, preparing myself for what yet another case like this meant for us as a whole. Only days after we had celebrated the feelings of cohesion as a nation we were once again forced to pull back the covers and reveal the issues that make up America’s bed. This discussion of race and more importantly discrimination divided and pit the
American people against each other in a fight that nobody would gain anything from winning. Sides were chosen, fights were picked and even those that wished to remain neutral were seen as part of the problem. The labels bestowed upon us and the characteristics that define us provides everyone with a unique position in relation to each other when viewing various situations from their particular perspective. I have jokingly referred to myself as a double whammy, noting that I view the world not only through the eyes of a minority but a woman to boot. Not for the first time did it cross my mind how conflicting it can be to simultaneously exist as proud, American, black woman.
After the shootings I watched social media activists come out in droves. Angry, hurt and confused that these issues seemed to plague black people, only for it to be met with outrage that would reach a fever pitch, fizzle out with no resolution and resurge when it happened eerily similar again. I watched classmates, coworkers and friends fuel ineffective fires with hate and anger. I also witnessed individuals chose to ignore or openly dismiss the idea that race played a part in this issue and tsked the fact that the media was manipulating the people creating such a divide as if of course these things were a shame but did the media really have to go around talking about it and stirring everyone up? Facebook went from a family friendly place to share engagement announcements and cat memes to a racially charged virtual war zone where it was near impossible to avoid getting baited into an argument with some random kid you sat next to in middle school. I found myself scrolling through comment sections and following conversations, watching as tame debates spiraled out of control into hate filled tirades. One debate ended in the angry and final comment, "If you have so many complaints about the U.S why don’t you go live somewhere else?" That conversation probably raged on long after I had logged off, but the remark stuck with me. It seemed that many people confused a stand against discrimination as some blasphemous act of anti-patriotism. The Colin Kaepernick incident has shed much more light on that line of thinking, and I question, did people truly believe that you couldn’t concurrently exist as a proud American without having a complaint or two? I am as proud of the country from which I hail as anyone else, but it would be borderline impossible and downright disrespectful to ignore the desensitization and dismissal of discrimination against black Americans in the United States. I guiltily admit that I found it amusing to watch people squirm when discussing the events in front of a mixed crowd. Now people at work were choosing their words more carefully afraid that the “recent trouble” had somehow transformed everyone into radicals overnight. As if black people had become blacker than they were yesterday and just realizing that there was a disparity in treatment between “Americans” and "African Americans". I believe the more thoughtful anger and forced dialogue unsettled some more than looters and rioters, who could be written off as destructive idiots. The pensive rumination on the topic of race and this now obligatory discussion regarding these issues had disturbed the status quo that these things were better neither seen nor heard let alone discussed at work or in polite company.
I reflected on my experiences as a young black girl and the women on the Eastern shore of Maryland, and couldn’t help but pick apart comments, conversations and events that had shaped my perception of race relations and my position in it. Ignorant coworkers and peers had doled out faux compliments that I was the, "whitest black girl they had ever met." As if that were a contest I had entered and proudly won. Classmates had remarked that my group of friends were different from the others and became uncomfortable when they were gently reminded that we were “the others”, only to be met with exasperation and remarks that resembled, "you know what I meant." As if they were insulted that we had misconstrued their good intentions and ruined the accolade. As I grew older I became more uncomfortable at this persistent attempt to dilute me, making me relatable and exceptional only by first finding pieces of what they considered non-black characteristics within me. During one of my weekends in Lake Tahoe, I was engaged in a pleasant and tipsy conversation with a man while I waited for my boyfriend outside of the restroom only for him to end it with, "where in the world are you from? You talk whiter than me!" I gritted my beer and prepared myself to deliver the threadbare speech, that being articulate wasn’t linked to a specific racial group but luckily my boyfriend had returned and rescued me from it, delivering the speech himself, as it was one he had heard before. As I grew older I was quicker to chastise and educate people on the destructive nature of these comments and how they affect the thinking of a young black female trying to develop and blossom into an individual while avoiding being pigeon-holed and refusing to wear the labels that America insists she wear.
I once bluntly asked a friend why he avoided dating black women at all costs. He chuckled and responded that he wasn’t morally opposed, but dating black women was a rough road to take. He explained that we were born ready to take on the world. That from the time we were little girls our mothers had braided into our brains along with our hair that sometimes we’d have to work harder, think faster and be better than others simply because of our skin color. He went on to say that some black women had a chip on their shoulder that other women just didn’t have and it could grow exhausting. They were allowed to just be. I respected his honesty even as my skin prickled and I had to clamp my tongue with my teeth to bite back my rebuttal. I wanted to yell at him and scream, "Of course they can just be! No one had to sit them down after someone had poked fun or assumed simply because of their skin, their hair or their nose and explained that it was just the way life was." But I did not. If I did I would have added fuel to his fire, just another angry example he could cite to his friends when this question arose.
It is hard to have a love for a country that is so unapologetic about having hate implanted in its core. It seems woven into the very fabric of the nation, yet it is my home and the place that has shaped my experiences and allowed me to create my universe within it. But the question arises, am I the only one that finds it difficult to embrace a country that seems to fear and loath me? When what I believe is its embrace is actually a chokehold?
