While Black Series
I’m Tired (of Racism)
I’m a Black woman, but sometimes I don’t speak about race and racism. Because I’m tired…
I’m tired of the color of my skin being a reason to stop me from my daily rounds or, in the US, a mark of death.
I’m tired of the name calling — the first time someone called me a n****r, I was 6 or 7. I can still remember the sting. I’ve been called that word in multiple languages, and it hurts in all of them.
I’m tired of the “problem” of my hair. The nun who ran my primary school in the ’70s took exception to my Afro. “Is it clean, is it neat?”, asked my dad. “If the answer is yes, we have nothing to talk about.” I remember interviewing for a job in the ’80s and being told I’d have to do something about my braided hair if I got the job. Everyone else in the world can wear their hair the way it grows from their head — what makes our hair so different?
I’m tired of the double-take when I walk into an interview — my name could be that of a blue-eyed lass from Ireland. They weren’t expecting to see me. One colleague complained that my name “wasn’t African enough”. Who asked her, anyway?
I’m tired of the reduced expectations — the people who think I’m of lesser intelligence (trust me, I’m not!), and the ones who assume I’ll only be interested in Black issues. I’m…
