Digital Story (Under 400 words)

“Which college? FA-MOO?” 

“Did you just say ‘famoo?’ It’s FAMU” 

“I’m dead, she said famoo? That’s that Haitian accent coming in huh?”

“Y'all understood what I was saying though, Haitian accent or not.”

I  said all defensively as they cackled and repeated themselves to each other while completely disregarding my question.

It was at that moment I could discern the way that Americans had my mother feeling everytime she tried to vouch for herself in a public place.

My mother has always been an idol to me… and her intuition was like no other. Her ability to not take shit from anybody is something that I’ve always admired. And to me she always made sure to carry herself with respect and kindness in hope that her children would grow up and mirror her. 

So I couldn’t understand why giggles would crowd the room when she opened her mouth to explain that her car is fine and that it doesn’t need maintenance because she got it done last week, as the mechanic kept pushing to convince her that she was wrong. I couldn’t understand the disrespect that was thrown at her when she called to resolve her unemployment problems. And what I still can’t understand is why her doctor refused to provide her with the correct procedure when she was begging for her hips to get checked because she felt her joints rubbing together. 

But it was after that moment I noticed my vulnerability behind the slick comments that were made after my mispronunciation of FAMU. Sorrow and confusion intertwined leaving my chest feeling heavy because I realized that I watched my mother fight being a Woman, a migrant, and Black all alone with three kids in a new country that is vouching against her success and health. And it made me wonder, would she be a target to the mechanics at the auto repair shop if she wasn't a woman? Would she be disrespected by mechanics, government agencies, and doctors  if her Haitian accent wasn’t so visible? And would she be battling life threatening health issues right now if her Blackness wasn’t a queue for death? 

See.. What I need you to understand is I’m not telling these stories in hope of sympathy but more so that you can check yourself, check your environment because you’re going to find yourself more privileged than the next. Use it wisely.

 

Rock With Me. Not Against Me.

  The night I allowed myself to feel vulnerable around my new college friends is the night that left me feeling like an outcast, a weirdo.

It was another Saturday night when we were celebrating in hope of getting my mind off my boyfriend breaking up with me. It was me and three girls getting ready to head over to The Big E, a temporary amusement park where people dress up– and get to enjoy taking pictures and crazy rides.

It had been a while since I'd felt myself and was ready to step into my confidence and dress in what made me feel best because I realized that I should be able to rock my all black outfit, with all 10 of my silver earrings in, and my beautifully rounded gauges to enhance my personality. Maybe expose the type of girl that I felt confident being. I also realized that differed me from them a little bit but it still disturbed me when in the middle of my snapchat moment I was blatantly asked

 “Are you emo?” by one of my girlfriends. 

“No–”

I answered with my cheeks all hot, elevating the sweat on my palms as nervousness filled my blood. I wasn’t embarrassed because of the question but more so the judgmental tone and questioning look that accompanied it.

The following week, while working at the school’s MarketPlace, this boy who was supposed to be a friend of mine walked in and questioned me on my layered silver chains as he then pointed to gauges and questioned

“You’re Black. Why are your ears open? That’s that White people shit man.”

“Because I like it.”

I giggled to hide the frustration in my voice. I looked down in reflection of the heaviness on my chest and counted to three in an attempt to calm my breathing. It wasn’t the first time that I’ve dealt with criticism from the Black community on my appearance, my interests, and preferences; yet I still struggled to tell him not to label me.

The toxicity within referring to Black people [who spoke a certain way, with a certain dialect and tone; who listens to White dominated genres of music; rock their clothes a certain way; and their hair in a different fashion; carry themselves in ways that makes them comfortable] as an “oreo” weighed a lot on us who were viewed as different by our Black classmates, growing up. It was a term normalized throughout middle school in indication of Black people being White on the inside; and was blatantly projectected onto Black students who were labeled as “nerds,” spoke “proper English,” and for those of us who were Emo; Gothic; and Alternative (yes. Us Black middle schoolers dressed in all black outfits with heavy eyeliner that enhanced the fatigue in our eyes; hair straightened and banged up– hiding the right eye from society. Us who walked round all closed up and antisocial with the knee high black and white converse as we bumped Twenty One Pilots at seven in the morning) definitely were not offered a seat at the table with the other “certified Black kids.”

Going into Westfield State University, I’d always hoped to find my group of people regardless of the campus being so small and predominantly White. I’ve connected with some pretty dope Black people but oftentimes, it startles me when they get comfortable asking me passive aggressive questions such as “are you emo?” “you a rockstar?” “you lowkey White inside aren’t you?” all while laughing it off at the expense of my comfort. “Turn that White people shit off!” they try to scream over the sound of my favorite heavy metal band blasting through MY speaker. It startled me because I thought that respect and acceptance was guaranteed in adult life. Do they know that rock and roll originated from us Black folks? Do they know that we influenced this White dominated emo, gothic, and alternative culture? 

Maybe if I were to replace my gauges with hoops I’d be less outcasted– less classified, and more accepted by my own people. Racism in America is no doubt very sensible; and it causes feelings of discomfort when my Black peers view me no different than White Folks simply because of my silver chains and platform boots. And it makes me wonder why we allow White people to be but question our own for their slight dissimilarities.