It was quite long ago, I believe I was around 7 (Iâm 22 now). I remember how shocked and hurt I was by it, yet still so confused. Even though the day was over a decade ago, itâs still vivid and fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.
I lived in Illinois back then, with my mother, father, and little brother. We lived in a predominately-white suburban neighborhood. Obviously, we were the only black family on that street, so we stood out quite a bit. I had a few friends on that street. Waterford Lane, Lake in the Hills. I still remember that two story house fondly.
School had just let out, and just like several other kids, I had gotten on a bus to get home. Ah, those were the daysâElementary School was such a great experience to me, you know? I loved to learn. I loved to read. I loved making my teachers smile and exceeding their expectations and making them proud of me. In school, during that time, we were learning about 3D shapes. Another group of kids that werenât in the same class as us had gone through their lessons a bit faster, and finished the project to be made at the end of the lesson. A 3D shape of your choosing made out of plastic straws and those twisty-ties that people use to keep bread loaf bags shut.
I, being the curious child I was, had been fawning over the 3D shapes those kids had carried onto the bus. I was sitting with a group of kids I had made a pretty good friendship with, or so I thought. One of them even lived on the same street I did; a little white boy my age. We used to bike all the time around the neighborhood together, and he had even been inside my house to play games. I remember asking one of the kids I was talking to if I could see their little 3D project because I just thought it was so cool. My âfriendâ (who hadnât even been a part of the conversation) interjected, and said something that shocked me into stunned silence.
âNo, you canât, because you have dark skin!â
I ran off the bus crying to my parents, who had been waiting at the bus stop for me. I told them what my âfriendâ had said. I remember them being furious and unleashing holy hell onto that little boyâs parents while all of the other kids and parents watched. I remember being so hurt by what he had said, but so confused as to why his parents were so apologetic and embarrassed and stammering before ushering away, clearly talking to their child in hushed, furious tones. Why were my parents yelling at his? What had they done to deserve being yelled at? Did I really deserve less just because I had brown skin?
Because a child doesnât just go around saying that out of the blue.
That boy had never been allowed near my house again.
I remember the second time I experienced racism.
Still third grade. Mother and Father were going through divorce proceedings, Father had left leaving a sore bleeding hole behind in our once idyllic home and it was wreaking havoc in our household. I was a sad and angry little girl. I started acting out more, even in school; because I figured I was being treated like a villain in school anyway, so why not act like one? There was hardly a day that went by that I wasnât being bullied by my peers, my teacher, or older students that were in the Fifth Grade. I remember this one particular girl in the fifth grade, Nora (of Indian descent), who I thought was my best friend, but in actuality tried to get anyone and everyone she could to make me cry just so she could get a laugh. She liked putting me down, just to make herself seem cooler. God, after I realized how toxic she was, I hated her with a passion.
She even turned this one fifth grade boy I had a crush on (he had pretty red hair, silly I know) against me. Iâd only ever see him on the bus, but heâd make the bus ride to and from school a living hell. Calling me names, pulling my hair, the like. I tried to tell my teacher about it, but lmao, of course she didnât do anything. Hell, she even snidely told me I deserved it. So I just sat quietly and took all the abuse, because I knew that no one would help me anyway.
One day, I had had a particularly rough day at school. Ridicule from my teacher and peers, and knowing Iâd be heading back to a broken home where no father was waiting to hug me and wipe my tears away? I was stressed. I was angry. Mother had heard me crying one day before this, and told me I had her permission to defend myself if I needed to, but ONLY if someone else put their hands on me first. I was NEVER to throw the first punch, she told me. I didnât understand why, but I trusted my mother above all else.
I got on that bus that day. That little boy had a wild hair up his ass for some reason; was showing off for a group of friends. Calling me âblackieâ, âa fat tub of lardâ, âstupidâ, etc. I ignored him, and this made him angry.
Then he stood up and kicked me in the stomach.
I saw red through the tears of pain blurring my sight before blacking out.
When I came back to reality, the bus had been pulled to the side of the road and I was being pulled off the boy by the bus-driver. He had a split lip, a quickly swelling black eye, and was sobbing through chipped teeth. I was banned from the bus for a week after that, during which time I learned that he had a fractured jaw and bruised ribs from my rage too. I remember being pulled into the office by the Vice President, with my mother and his parents there, and being shown the tape from the Bus Camera that had caught the whole thing. I remember his parents being angry that I was even still in the school despite their child being clearly in the wrong, and being called a âmonsterâ and a âdanger to the schoolâ. The VP was cool though, and was on my motherâs and Iâs side, saying it was Self-Defense. They said theyâd sue, to which the VP laughed and said âGo ahead; with this tape, it wonât go anywhereâ. I didnât get in any official trouble, but the glare that mother had given me sent chills down my back. The rumor of what I did spread around the school very quickly.
The only good thing about that was that I wasnât being bullied anymore.
I remember the first time I was told I wasnât as pretty as other girls around me because I had dark skin.
Still in Illinois, but different school. I was in Fifth Grade now. Mother had won custody of my little brother and I, and we had to move from that big old house that I adored into a much smaller condo apartment. Mother had to work long hours to support us, so I had to help her parent my brother. Help out with chores, make sure we got to school on time, help her cook, make sure my brother and I did our homework, we ate, and got to bed on time, stuff like that. I remember feeling quite a bit of pride for being such a big girl to deserve my own phone back then, so my mom and I could keep in contact while she was at work and we were home alone.
There was this boy I had a small crush on in my class, he was most definitely the clown. Got in trouble a lot for playing pranks, and joking around and talking while everyone was working. I liked him because he was funny, and made me smile even though I was clinically depressed (thatâs a whooooooooooole other story). I had told a âfriendâ in confidence that I liked him, and well, of course that didnât remain a secret for long.
We were heading to art class when he confronted me and made fun of me for it, in front of our whole class. He said âThatâs cute, but honestly, I could do a whole lot better than youâ. I was hurt. Distraught. One of the other girls seemed to have a bit of sympathy for me and said âThatâs so mean, why would you even say that?â. I still remember his response to this day.
âBlack girls arenât as pretty as White girls.â
I remember the first time I was ridiculed by people who looked like me.
We had moved to California, to be closer to my motherâs side of the family. I remember being vaguely shocked and excited to suddenly be surrounded by people who looked like me. New friends I could make! Maybe things wouldnât be so bad anymore! Maybe I wouldnât be so lonely anymore!
I remember my first day in my new school, Sixth Grade. The class was so much more diverse in terms of ethnicity. Not a single white kid in sight. I remember being very wary and even distrustful of my teacher, because he was a white male. I learned better as the year went on thoughâHe was quite honestly the best teacher I had ever had, and Iâll remember him forever.He was strict but fair, and he made learning fun again for me. He was the one teacher who ever told me that it didnât matter what I looked likeâ If I wanted to succeed, and was willing to work for it, Iâd be great in whatever I decided to set my mind to do. He believed in me.
But anyway, I remember being introduced to my new students, and everyone looking at me like I was a shooting star or something. Illinois was so very far away, after all; I remember getting swarmed by my peers during recess asking me if I wanted to play, and I was so excited. But as the day went on, and I kept talking and laughing with them, they kept giving me weird looks, so I asked them what was wrong.
âYou talk white. Why are you talking like that? Do you think youâre better than us? You sound just like a whitie/gringo. Donât you know what they do to people who look like you? Why do you want to sound like them?â
It wasnât long after that that I became lonely again.
I remember the first time I had been stopped by a security guard in a public setting.
This was during my make-up phase. I had reached my mid teens by now, and I was feeling really insecure about my image. I particularly liked lipstick and eye shadow, and I would beg my mom to take me to the local Walgreens to get some whenever I had saved up enough money. I liked collecting random colors and flavors; it made me happy.
I had made the mistake of wearing a baggy hoodie that day. I loved hoodies, still do; they make me feel safe and warm, like a hug. Mom hated them, cause I liked using the hood to hide my face and kept my hands in the huge pockets they had, ,which I personally didnât get. When we walked through the doors, I had sped-walked straight towards the make-up section. I was looking at all the different brands and colors, touching them while oohing and aahing over them before putting them back; none of them were really catching my eye. Over the intercom, we heard a lady give a strange nonsensical code. I turned to my mom and joked that maybe they thought I was stealing or something (I felt it was funny because mom had put the fear of God in me when it came to stealing; I was terrified about even thinking about committing the act).
Turns out, when we were done and walking towards the entrance after paying for our goods and I got stopped by a security guard, that I had been right on the money. I got patted down and forced to empty out my pockets and little purse in front of the doorway, in front of the whole store, for that security guard to be sure that I hadnât taken anything without paying for it. It took fifteen minutes. They didnât find anything, of course, but I was practically crying by that point. When we were allowed to leave, I was ushered out the store by my mom and when we were in the car, she took the time to calm me down before telling me that was why she didnât like my hoodies.
Because I would be looked at with even more suspicion when I was in a store than I already was. My mom told me that in order to not be bothered by authority, I had to look as non-criminal as possible.
âB-But whyâŚ?â I asked, like a naive child.
âBecause youâre black.â She sadly told me.
I didnât go back to that Walgreens for at least a year.
I remember the first time I felt threatened by a police officer.
We were living with my disabled grandfather after his second wife had passed by this time. I still thought that the majority of cops were good when I was turning 17. Why else would they be protecting the public, right? They were strong and brave, and put themselves on the line to keep citizens safe. They were the good guys. Sure, there were some bad apples, but you couldnât judge a whole group based on what they wore, right? There was bound to be some worms no matter where you go, and I had been coached extensively by my mom and uncles about what to say and do if youâre approached by an officerâ Be respectful, stay calm and compliant, and donât speak too much (this confused me, but whatever my family said Iâd do).
I was walking with my little brother back from the 7-11 near our house, after a snack run. My brother was 14 then, and he had a bike. It was a pretty cool red bike that he absolutely loved, and he rode it around everywhere. If he was out and about in the neighborhood, chances are he was on his bike. We were laughing and squabbling with each other, like siblings usually do and just minding our own business.
When we were only, Iâd say, a quarter mile away from home, a police cruiser coasted up beside us on the sidewalk. We immediately went quiet and stared ahead, trying not to look like we were up to no good or anything. I whispered to my brother to let me handle the talking if they spoke to us, because my bro had a bit of a temper back then and I didnât want him mouthing off to an officer. They followed us for a small distance down the street, before the passenger side window rolled down and the (white) officer in the passenger seat asked us to stop. We did. He then asked us where we were going.
âHomeâ, I said, sorta shielding my brother from view.
âOh yeah? Whereâs home?â
âClose by.â
We stared at each other in silence for a bit (I wasnât dense enough to not realize there wasnât tension) and I could feel my brother gripping onto my shirt from behind. I could feel him shaking a little. The officer looked at my brother, and consequently, the bike he had been riding down the sidewalk.
âThatâs a nice bikeâ, he said.
âT-Thanks!â My brother said, realizing he was being addressed and eager to talk about something he loved to a guy he thought was doing a really cool job. âI love my bike, I ride it everywhere!â
âYour bike, huh? Got proof that itâs yours?â
My brotherâs eyes went wide in shock.
They wouldnât let us leave that spot until we proved that the bike in our possession was my brotherâs. I remember having to call my mom who was at home, wondering where the hell we were, and explain to her that two police officers had us cornered in a nearby street and werenât letting us leave over a shiny new-looking bike. I remember hearing her losing her shit over the phone, saying sheâd be right there and not to panic, and in the background, my grandfather insisting heâd come with to try and ease things to (and to keep my mother in check, cause sheâs one hell of a spitfire). I remember shaking and whispering to my brother that everything would be okay; while trying to shield him from view as we stood there for five whole minutes waiting for our mom to save the day, all the while the officer was asking us increasingly invasive questions about us and getting more and more irritated when I gave short, polite answers that didnât reveal much. I remember taking a further look into the car than I should have, and feeling my heart drop when I realized the officer (of course) had a gun on him. And his hand was resting over the holster.
I had seen it. And when I looked back up at him in the eyes, it was clear he knew I had seen it.
But his hand didnât move away from the gun.
Mother showed up quick, and with my grandfather in tow. Thing is, my grandfather could pass for white. Only slightly tanned skin that could be dismissed due to the California sun, and bright blue eyes. My mother, with fury in her eyes, clearly caused alarm for the officers, but when they saw my grandfather trying his best to hold her back and keep her from cussing them out with the receipt for the bike she had bought for my brother clenched tightly in her hand, they quickly backed down and tried to seem as friendly as possible before driving off in under two minutes, wishing us a good day. I remember my brother and I quickly being rushed home, the both of us rattled out of our minds while my mom ranted and told us this was why she told us to be on our best behavior while in public.
I remember that day as the day it really hit home for me.
I was not seen as equal by those around me because of something I had no control over.
I would be looked at with suspicion while in public because of my skin color unless I somehow managed to prove I was trustworthy.
I wasnât seen as pretty as girls with lighter skin were.
Authority wasnât always right, nor was it unbiased.
Police officers werenât friends to people who look like me.
Whether I was being passive or aggressive didnât matter to those around me if people wanted to pick a fight; if I wasnât careful, I would most likely be the first to get accosted/handcuffed/a harsh sentence/killed.
And that the freedom that the American Flag stood for, that several of my family members had pledged their lives to, military, medical, or otherwise, didnât mean a damn when it came to us.
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