Personal Narrative: I Want To Be Black
I was in the cafeteria with my friend Naya at our community college. Somehow, we got a conversation were Naya said something about how she wants her futcher children to feel about their race and skin town. Instantly, I was brought back to the time in my early childhood where I wished to be white. Before I could even get three words out I began to cry as two emotions, anger and sadness, dwelled deep within me, that I made shore was never risen to the surface, … emerged. I cried, I cried in PUBLIC, around people who I did not know, nor really cared to. But, no one saw me, no payed attention, it was as if it was just me an Naya.
What I said:
When I was younger, I didn’t want to be black, I wanted to be white. I don’t want my kids to EVER feel
that way and I don’t want them to come and resent white people like I’m starting to, I don’t want them to hate white people like my dad dose. Why? Why is it so common for children of color to wish they were white? Why is that the norm? Why am I supposed to get over slavery when the evidence of it surrounds me every damn day? White people in class go, “Oh! Well I’m Scottish” or “my family accessory is from Italy” and ALL I can fucking say is that my ancestors come from Africa (keep in mind I love Africa with a passion … except south Africa… those white people down there suck ass, I like the original people though), and Africa is a BIG ASS continent. The only detectable part about my linage that I know is that I have Cherokee, Scottish (both of which were relationships of love) and a fucking rapist French slave owner (I know there is at least one more white slave owner but I don’t know his specific nationality). My ancestors, my mothers, were bent over, legs forced apart, and rapped by the same man that whips her back, and the backs of her husband, and the back of her friends. AND THESE MEN, THESE MONSTERS, THOSE DEVIL’S, BLOOD … there blood runs though me, and I HATE IT, I hate it. As I sit there, still crying, arms lay in front of me on the table, looking at my hands, I became even more enraged. Am I somehow supposed to be grateful, grateful that I’m here now? … I don’t even know her name, I don’t know the name of my mother’s who’s body’s was used as a sexual conquest.
Then I looked back at Naya as she stared dead in my eyes. She had nothing to say or didn’t know what to say, which is far, I wouldn’t know what to say either. I then looked around and no one saw me or even payed attention to me. Then I looked and Naya and she was looking down at her phone, possibly putting nots in her phone so she can use what I said to right a poem.
We were both quiet for about 2 minutes and I eventually calmed down.
That was the end of that.
What I said:
When I was younger, I didn’t want to be black, I wanted to be white. I don’t want my kids to EVER feel
that way and I don’t want them to come and resent white people like I’m starting to, I don’t want them to hate white people like my dad dose. Why? Why is it so common for children of color to wish they were white? Why is that the norm? Why am I supposed to get over slavery when the evidence of it surrounds me every damn day? White people in class go, “Oh! Well I’m Scottish” or “my family accessory is from Italy” and ALL I can fucking say is that my ancestors come from Africa (keep in mind I love Africa with a passion … except south Africa… those white people down there suck ass, I like the original people though), and Africa is a BIG ASS continent. The only detectable part about my linage that I know is that I have Cherokee, Scottish (both of which were relationships of love) and a fucking rapist French slave owner (I know there is at least one more white slave owner but I don’t know his specific nationality). My ancestors, my mothers, were bent over, legs forced apart, and rapped by the same man that whips her back, and the backs of her husband, and the back of her friends. AND THESE MEN, THESE MONSTERS, THOSE DEVIL’S, BLOOD … there blood runs though me, and I HATE IT, I hate it. As I sit there, still crying, arms lay in front of me on the table, looking at my hands, I became even more enraged. Am I somehow supposed to be grateful, grateful that I’m here now? … I don’t even know her name, I don’t know the name of my mother’s who’s body’s was used as a sexual conquest.
Then I looked back at Naya as she stared dead in my eyes. She had nothing to say or didn’t know what to say, which is far, I wouldn’t know what to say either. I then looked around and no one saw me or even payed attention to me. Then I looked and Naya and she was looking down at her phone, possibly putting nots in her phone so she can use what I said to right a poem.
We were both quiet for about 2 minutes and I eventually calmed down.
That was the end of that.