By Rosie Smith
From a young age, I knew I was different. I couldn’t brush my hair like my other friends who had fine hair. My skin got dry easily, and I had this skin disease, eczema, that I would itch until I created open wounds and had to use an Aquaphor mixture to heal it. In the summer, my skin darkened when I took a vacation to Florida, and people would comment on how dark I was. “Woah, you’re so dark!” they’d say. I never paid attention to my differences, until other people did.
Like every young teen in seventh grade, I started to care about how I looked to others. How was my hair? Frizzy and undefined, but I sure didn’t know how to take care of it, or what products to use, no gel and no curl cream. Most may know, but I am adopted, and with white parents, it leaves me to navigate being black on my own, which wasn’t easy in the beginning. When I was younger, of course I didn’t have a care in the world about how I looked, but I often noticed little black girls with braids that had colorful beads at the end, and I couldn’t help but smile at their beauty. But I always kept the want of getting braids hidden, “I’m not black enough,” I told myself. “I’m whitewashed.”
When I got into high school, I noticed I was a minority, but it wasn’t surprising. I had lived in a Predominately White Institution (PWI) my whole life and didn’t expect a difference. But I knew the social high school experience would be different, new kids, kids who would say things and no one would bat an eye, kids who would make inappropriate jokes about my ancestors and mean it with harm. What am I supposed to do in those situations? Turn the other cheek? I don’t think so. As I got older, I wasn’t afraid to shut those people down and tell them that it wasn’t funny, I wasn’t afraid to tell my friends that their jokes were actually racist, and I surely wasn’t afraid to help educate others on why they shouldn’t speak to me using African American Vernacular English (AAVE), Ebonics, or what most may know as a “blackcent,” because they think “we’ll connect better,” or it’s “friendly,” but it is a microaggression.
Microaggressions are slightly racist, backhanded comments that are said with good intentions, but actually sound better in one’s head. Comments like this can be based off ignorance. I’ve received them often and it’s difficult to turn the conversation around and tell that person that when they asked, “Can I touch your hair?” it was rude and uncalled for. Calling my few, black friends my “sistas” when they are just my friends seems, extra.
Being the only African American in an English or history class is not something many would consider nerve-racking; well, I’m not even sure people would notice. But in reality, when the unit of slavery gets brought up and my palms get sweaty because I know all eyes are on me, like I’m going to start crying or yelling at the teacher, it’s one of the most uncomfortable emotions I’ve ever felt. When we read books that were written before the Civil War, and they contain derogatory language and dialogue, it’s almost like they’re talking to me, and everyone knows it. Kids snicker and laugh because they think the lives of slaves were amusing. It sure ain’t amusing to me.
Two years ago, this young African American girl who is adopted, was moving to Cincinnati and I was asked if I could help mentor her as an older African American girl who is adopted as well. I was honored with the question and happily said yes. When I met her for the first time, she was unsure of who she was, and I could tell that I was going to be her helping hand, a hand that she had never been able to grab, a hand that had never been offered to her. Telling her about how I navigated my teen life on my own as an African American, was one of the most meaningful things I had ever done for someone else and really feel like I was doing God’s work. Helping her answer some questions that only I would have the answer to, is a special gift that I could only obtain through my experiences. I’m happy to say that we continue to talk and see each other occasionally.
Living as an African American comes with the most beautifully cultured life I wouldn’t change for the world. That R&B (rhythm and blues) song you like by Destiny’s Child or Brandy Norwood is African American culture. Those big gold hoops and the modern streetwear style you admire is also African American culture! It’s everywhere! We get shut down for the way we speak and live, but it has never stopped us from being who we are. We fight for our rights like Rosa Parks, we write poetry, like Langston Hughes and most importantly, we change lives, like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
My life can be hard to explain, but it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for it. I’ve learned and grown through hardship with experiences that I have to face on my own with no one to tell me what my life may be like, and it has built my advanced level of maturity. I know that one of my purposes in life is to educate others and help them learn and grow. So, with that I’ll continue to serve that purpose with pride and love.
The McNicholas Milestone 