They say there comes a time in every Black person’s life where they realize that they aren’t like their white counterparts. They won’t be treated the same, given the same amount of respect, grace or understanding as a white person would. I thought this would be a one time event and then it would not really effect me anymore. This was a false belief. There were layers. I did not yet understand that no matter how much I protected or prepared myself, racial unfairness would be a lesson, or more like an experience, that life would continue to give me.
At first, I thought I could be treated differently if I was a palatable Black girl. What does this mean? I would assimilate into mainstream culture, learn the jokes, the songs, the style, the politics, the speech, even the way to worship that was acceptable in white circles. I wouldn’t stand out too much. I wouldn’t make them feel threatened by my intelligence, wisdom, passion and talent. I would go with their flow and they would allow me to feel like I was one of them. And it worked for a while until I became tired of not being myself and hiding my light, thoughts, observations and God-given gifts. It was exhausting to hide my abilities while fitting into a box that was not made for me.
Things weren’t adding up. No matter how much I “assimilated” or changed my ways, I just could not seem to catch up. I started feeling that one false move would destroy all of the hard work I had done. Then I started to question why I was working so hard for their approval? Why did I feel like I needed to be just like them and be above reproach to just exist peacefully? But my main questions were, did they understand how it felt to be me and did they even care? Are they happy with the power imbalance?
I’m an observer by nature. And as Black girl, I realized that being overlooked and underestimated lent itself to being able to sit back and observe. Observe how people interact with one another, with those who are different versus with those who are the same. What do they say when they feel like they won’t be heard? My trouble began when I (very slowly) decided I no longer wanted to or needed to fit inside of that invisible box and I began to challenge this cycle that it seemed like everyone falls into in our society. Not challenging them because of my youth and because I was #rebelling but because what they were doing felt wrong and I was catching on. It felt prejudiced but I did not have the vocabulary and understanding to help me see why it felt that way. I did not know the difference between overt and covert racism, micro-aggressions, deep rooted racial biases and implicit biases or even what being palatable meant. I just knew that cracks were starting to form in the solid foundation I thought I had built. That even being the nice Black girl wasn’t going to be enough at times and would never mean anything to some people. A lot of the pain I have experienced could have been avoided if I just stayed the course. But staying the course was already painful enough.
I grew up attending South Baton Rouge Church of Christ. It is a predominantly white church. I have fond memories of my time attending South. I used to think of the people there like family. But what most don’t know is that my time spent there filled me with anxiety and made me question so much about myself. It was a strange sensation to feel both things at the same time, to feel a part of something and not a part of it at all. As a child you desire to fit in and feel a part of a group. As a Black child surrounded by white children, this desire was heightened. The work I put into fitting in trumped any other suspicious “this isn’t right” feelings.
What most people fail to realize is that racism isn’t just calling someone the N word or a burning cross in a front yard. For me, it was having a grown man question why my mother gave me braids in the summer and telling me that he didn’t like that ethnic hairstyle. It’s having friends tell me that they are glad me and my family are different than those “other black people”. It’s being told by my camp counselor that it’s gross that I don’t wash my hair every night like they do. It’s being overlooked, having my motives constantly questioned and being vilified by the people who I thought would have my back. It was going out of my way to learn about them and they never doing the same in return.
This was my experience at South. It felt like it was all in my head at times. Unlike overt racism, covert racism and prejudice doesn’t leave a trace. You can’t track it. You can’t tell people explicitly what someone else did to you and hear their gasps of horror and see the shock on their face. No, it’s the more dangerous one. The one you can’t prove because it has to come with an explanation of why it is wrong. The one that people, particularly Christians, cover with “I love yous” and “you’re my sister/brother” or the best one “you know I would never do anything to hurt you”. If you’re a trusting person and someone that doles out second chances—then this can mess with you.
There is no hate like “Christian” love.
I protected myself from these experiences for my own mental health. I stopped attending this church but remained friendly and involved from a distance. I still call people from this period of life friends. People who I can trust and are willing to listen to my experiences with an open mind and heart like I am willing to listen to theirs. I didn’t think they could hurt me anymore, that things couldn’t get worse. Until they did.
The elders and preacher at South have shown me their true colors these past two months. They have shown me the lows they will go to to annihilate a Black man’s character and his standing in their community when they feel intimidated by him or just don’t like him. They have shown me what happens when you stop being a palatable Black person. When you have the audacity to disagree with them.
They (6 white men) chose to threaten a Black man with the intimidation of law enforcement even though he has never threatened them or shown any sign of violent or aggressive behavior. They have twisted their image of this man to fit their narrative. They used their power as church leadership to make an example of this man. But the thing they didn’t realize was that their implicit biases were showing. That white men have painted Black men as dangerous and “needing to be tamed” to fit their own purpose since the slave trade began and that they were walking in that same path.
They didn’t realize the harm they had done because they never took the time to learn. Or did they learn and not apply? Or learn and not care? I am unsure because I don’t know their hearts, only their actions.
I and many others are shocked, disappointed, hurt, confused (but somehow not surprised) by their actions. I grew up going to this church and saw and experienced many things that left me wounded by leadership. I didn’t know how to express myself then or process those situations but I can now. I refuse to stay quiet when I see this type of abuse of power.
Why am I writing this now? Well, for a variety of different reasons. I used to believe that keeping quiet would benefit me more than “making a fuss”. But I realize that doesn’t help me and surely doesn’t help the people who need to grow from hearing my stories. I have also been learning how to better communicate my experiences as as Black woman and how sharing those experiences can encourage other Black women to share their own. And lastly, I do this for little Carmen as I call her. The girl who wish someone could have seen the pain and spoken on her behalf. The girl who was held to a higher standard. I write this for 8 year old, 15 year old and 20 year old Carmen who felt so isolated and different and didn’t fully understand why. I share this because I don’t ever want to feel voiceless again and I want to leave being a palatable Black person in 2021.
Griffeshop says
Great content! Keep up the good work!