May 16, 2020

The day I became aware of my blackness

I grew up the 70’s, a time where blatant racism was quiet, at least in my neighborhood early on. We were the first black family to move on our street and we seemed to be welcomed. I could go outside and play with my white friends, but we weren’t allowed in each other’s homes. My best friend, Mary, lived next door to me.

As a child I didn’t question it until one of my friends invited me to her house after school. She told me to wait at the door while she asked her parents if I could come in. She came back to the door and told me her father said I wasn’t allowed in their house because I was black. I told my father what happened and asked why. My father asked me if my friend’s father said anything to me, I told him no. He then told me in a stern tone not to accept any invitations to my friend’s houses. I was confused.

At the time I was only 6 or 7 and my father tried his best to explain that there was nothing wrong with me, it was just that some white people didn’t like black people just because of the color of our skin and I had to be careful and I couldn’t trust everybody because they may try to hurt me.

I became more aware of my blackness after our talk and the quiet racism started to get louder. More black families were moving into my neighborhood. My white friends stared going to private school and more white families moved out of the neighborhood.

One of our neighbors sicced his dogs on me and my sister as we were walking home from school and yelled “Get off my street niggers”, and out of nowhere, my best friend was no longer allowed to play with me.

I was too young to truly understand what racism was, but I felt and still feel the effects to this day.