As well as being involved in a number of conversations post George Floyd, the latest being on The Full Stop podcast with Michael Huges, Sarah Lawrence and Berenice Smith (watch out for the recording) I have also been reflecting on my experiences as a black woman. As much as I have been encouraging ‘white people’ todo the anti-racism work for themselves and also to learn our history I have also felt that it’s just as important for me (as a black person) to know my history too.
So that being said and on the back of me finishing ‘Ain’t I A Women’ by Bell Hooks, I thought that I’d take some time out to watch the film Imitation of Life. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, part of it is centered around a black housekeeper who faces the rejection of her own fair-skinned daughter, Sarah Jane, who abandons her (cultural) heritage for a chance to be accepted as white with the belief that she would get further in life (and have better chances than her mother did) if she were white.
Thinking back to my earlier years, I do not recall not wanting to be black – I guess I had more (although still pretty limited) opportunities than the originally written 1939 character Sarah Jane had – but I do remember favoring my friends long blonde hair, that they could toss over their shoulders, over my tough, wiry, stay-put hair (I now have a more loving relationship with my hair). I remember secretly playing at home placing one of my mum’s crocheted doily’s (it was the closest thing I had to a wig) over my head pretending that it was my hair, hair that I could then toss and flick over my shoulders. I remember that in my mind, white was better, white girls where slim and beautiful and nothing like how I looked with my big behind and tick (think) thighs – I really hated my thighs.
My earliest memory was of me in a pushchair. My dad had taken me to a market, I’m not sure if my mum was with us, and dad wanted to buy me a doll. He got to the required stall and pointed at the one he so desired me to have. As the lady took it down my dad proudly handed it to me and I screamed – it was not the doll I wanted, it was black and I wanted the pretty white one.
No I do not remember not wanting to be black but I had definite messages of what was good, successful and beautiful and that wasn’t represented in me. The messages I received growing up and into adulthood;
- “Can you have less plaits in your hair next time”
- “Have you considered being a shop assistant”
- “You are not good enough to sit A levels”
- “How did you get into Bristol Polytechnic? That course (HND in Biomedical Science) sounds too good for you”
- “Is English your first language?”
- “Do you have to wear your hair like that?”
- “You are so mouthy”
- “Black people don’t do that”
- “Have you ever been to prison?”
- “I nearly had to ask you to smile so that I could see you (in the dark)”
- “I knew that you’d be a good dancer”
and this was what was said to my face let alone the unspoken messages fulfilling the stereotypes within the systems I existed in.
No I do not remember not wanting to be black but I remember the struggles to be heard, to be accepted. The longing to be see as the same and not as other. I remember feeling tired of having to constantly prove myself – that I wasn’t like the ones they saw in the news. I remember not knowing who I was…
Sadly these memories were born out of my experiences from both white and black people and reflecting on the books I’ve read, the conversations I’ve had, the podcasts I’ve listened to I see the (painful) history/ the trauma that we have been shaped from, that we all still bear the scars of. The history that is, unless faced, destined to recycle itself. To Quote Bell Hooks; “More often than not we bear our pain in silence, patiently waiting for change to come. But neither passive acceptance not stoic endurance lead to change. Change occurs only when there is action, movement, revolution”.
The books I have read…
The books from my ever growing reading list…
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