You’re not really black
“You’re not really black”. A peer of mine said this to me a few months ago in a typical, everyday conversation. “WHY NOT? What do you mean?!” I quickly shouted up. My peer stumbled and struggled to articulate his point, before quickly moving the conversation on to save face. But it stuck with me.
I found myself perplexed and frustrated. Why did he say that?! The usual questions came to mind: is he talking about my lighter complexion? I am mixed-race after all. Was he talking about the way I look? Perhaps it was what I was wearing? Or maybe it was how I spoke?
Eventually, I realised the issue was the reality of my blackness, my identity, conflicted with his expectation of blackness. After taking some time to reflect, I noticed this had been common throughout my life and had continued to this day. Similar to all the members of the Wakanda Social Club, I have largely been the sole, or one of a few black faces in predominantly white spaces; particularly grammar school, university, and now in my early career.
On the whole, my experience of grammar school was great; it provided me with a strong education, life-changing trips and friends I thought I would have my whole life. In fact, I can only think of a couple of abusive racist incidents. However, the racism manifested in ways I wasn’t aware of or didn’t completely understand. I was fetishised; I had an afro which was regularly groped, girls often spoke about wanting my babies (my babies not me!) and even had a waiting list. I was tokenised; I remember a classmate calling me “Señor Negro” (translates to Mr Black) as I was the only black guy in our Spanish lesson. Part of me cringes, almost winces, when remembering my reaction to these moments and I know they would be met with a different response if repeated today.
Throughout my years at grammar school, I became increasingly disenfranchised and ended up leaving at the end of year 11. The decision at the time was simple: I wanted to play basketball competitively and study design. My school didn’t offer the chance to do both those things, so I had to find somewhere that did! In hindsight, I think it was more than that: a large part of me always felt out of place, as if I didn’t belong and me leaving school was the opportunity to explore the question — where do I belong?
Well, this answer was quickly answered, I realised where I belonged: on the basketball court and in the design studio. My time at college was arguably the best two years of my life in education. I made lifelong friends, I excelled inside the classroom and on the basketball court.
However something happened I never expected — my blackness faded from the jokes. Instead, it was my whiteness that was brought into question! I remember being bantered for not really being black (again), being jokingly described as a “bounty”. Why? Because my mum is white? Because I achieved high grades? Because I spoke well? Because I attended all my lessons (well whenever we didn’t have a basketball game or training!). Because I was never involved in any postcode related violence? Why?
It seems I was too black for the white kids and too white for the black kids…So what to do? What it seems I’ve been doing my whole life: continue challenging and disrupting the perception of what blackness is and isn’t!
