The Girl Who Cried Race

by Amanda Gorman

As an activist of of color, I know there’s a constant possibility of being deemed The Girl Who Cried Race. During high school media coverage of police brutality and racism increased, and I brought these issues up into the classroom. I sent my US History teacher articles about racism to show in class, or spoke up out about how prejudice affected the literature we read (or didn’t read) in Honors English.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I started feeling isolated from my peers, as if they saw me as the girl ‘pulling the race card’ yet again. I felt that discussing historical prejudice was imperative, yet I would see a small, subtle irritation in their eyes every time I mentioned this topic. Either that, or they would look directly at me, often the only black person in a class, when we talked about the Civil Rights movement or slavery. Yep, that was pretty awkward.

I noticed the more I talked about race, the more the others seemed to become desensitized from the pain and conflict caused by it. The more I mentioned, “Race is a societal construct that while false has very real implications in modern society”, the more people’s eyes glazed over. I’m sure they actually heard me saying “Blah blah blah”, followed by the thought: Here she goes again.

It got to the point where I would still email my history teacher articles to share, but ask (or pray!) that she wouldn’t tell the class it was from me. My peers seemed to receive and process the information much better if it wasn’t coming from me, the activist black girl.

You can bet every day was like:

Otherwise known as the black-girl-version of ‘to be or not to be’, or to speak or not to speak.

I was facing the weirdest Catch 22 — it even spilled into my experience on social media. I want to post #altonsterling and #philandocastille, but I know there is a certain amount of posts before some people go: “Ok, enough already.” Yesterday I found myself thinking: “Hmm you probably have two more times you can post about #dallas and #blacklivesmatter before people stop really listening to the essence of what you’re saying.”

I don’t really care what they think, but I know how it feels to be the person on the other end of that post. When I scroll through my Insta and there’s 18 posts about #blacklivesmatter, I find that necessary and inspiring. But by the time I read the 18th one, my brain starts glossing over what separates these posts, and blobs them into one, adding them to my bury, subconscious cornucopia that holds all my pain, thoughts, and information about police brutality. I become just like my white classmates, my eyes glazing over and hearing the saddest mantra: “Another life lost, another mother crying, another community wounded”. Is this wrong? Is this human? And then I become terrified that all this internet stimuli desensitizes me from an issue that is tied so closely to my life and experience a a black woman.

Let’s get this straight.

I’m not going to stop speaking out just because some people are irritated, bored, uncomfortable, or jaded by my comments on racial injustice.

I’m not going to stop speaking out because some people, including myself, at times get overwhelmed by the news of more violence, as well as the comments and opinions that follow. Yet this does poise a worthwhile question to activists who mean to bring awareness to a dominant group.

For example, after Barack Obama said that Trayvon Martin could have been him 35 years ago, Fox News radio host Todd Starnes called the president “Race-Baiter in Chief”.

When Obama stated that police who arrested Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. had ‘acted stupidly’, again there was major backlash. If Obama spoke out in an attempt to unify the racial divide and validate the black experience, he ended up causing more polarity and division (go here for this article with more stats about polarity toward Obama’s comments on race).

Perhaps the reason I stopped being as vocal in my all-white class is similar to why Obama isn’t incredibly outspoken about the #blacklivesmatter movement. Perhaps it’s because we, like many others, must straddle a thin line between speaking and waiting, being both victim to race and also the voice to challenge it. For activists, advocates and leaders of color, it is always a challenge to ensure your words have an effective, positive impact on the equality and unity of exploited groups.

Am I doing justice to my people if I speak out about police brutality in my class, even if that makes my white classmates even more desensitized by the topic? Is it morally permissible and socially effective for Obama to discuss #blacklivesmatter, even if that might negatively affect progress in the movement?

As an advocate, it is my burden and power to juggle the effectiveness of my words and rhetoric. It’s almost fascinating, that this internal, microcosmic conflict is actually at the principle of this whole movement. #Blacklivesmatter is about black lives and black voices, yet sometimes I need to be silent to get my point across.

I have come to recognize that silence does not always mean voiceless. True changemakers must be strategic and direct with their voices. I must be aware of my voice’s intention. It does not serve my people to simply amplify an uneducated voice that has not researched the complex system at hand. I must think before I act, I must think before I speak. This does not mean silence. This means strategy. It means if my intention is to support marginalized people, I must ponder where my voice is needed. If my intention is to speak for the voiceless, I must discover and explore the experiences of those in that group.

I would rather stay silent then use my voice to spur further ignorance, misconception, and controversy. I would rather stay silent and wait until the perfect moment for my voice to strike, for my voice to rumble, for my voice to motivate.

From this I’ve learned it’s not necessarily about how much you speak. It’s not about how loud you talk. It’s not about worrying about making the dominant race uncomfortable (in fact, social change requires discomfort).

It’s about how I use my voice. The process of vocalization, especially as an advocate of color, is full of nuisance and thoughtfulness. If I am deliberate with how and when I use my voice, my words will echo on forever. Then, even my silence will speak volumes in the fight for equality.