By Jazmine Chilo
I was 20-years old the first time I heard the names Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Carol Denise McNair.
I was in Birmingham, Alabama, also known as “Bombingham” because of the sheer amount of racist attacks that took place there during the mid-20th century. It was 2014 and my family and I were touring a chunk of the southern states; some familiar to me, but some that I was visiting for the very first time. There, I stepped into the 16th Street Baptist Church - have you heard of it? There is a clock on the wall there that reads 10:22 AM – regardless of what time of day it is – because that’s the time a bomb went off on September 15th, 1963 and killed those four little Black girls listed above. One perpetrator was convicted in 1977, but two others were not convicted until the early 2000s. Before I visited the church, I knew about the bombings, but didn’t know their names.
Feeling overwhelmed and despondent, I remarked to some friends that these past few weeks, it felt as if we were learning a new name each day. Another Black individual after a hashtag; complete histories behind a person’s name that we will never know. I began rolling over every morning to check my phone, my chest heavy already with a sense of dread. What happened while I was sleeping? Are the protesters safe? Who needs money today? I called myself a bad activist; it felt like I was crawling on my hands and knees through molasses while the world moved past me, whirling by as I attempted to toss out a single resource. How could I keep up with the 24-hour news cycle? How do I stop envying my non-Black allies, who don’t feel the pressure to keep up? I cannot turn my Blackness off.
I grew up in a majority-white town, the eldest daughter of a half-Filipina mother and an African-American father. I have a vivid memory of sitting at lunch in 7th grade when a classmate sneered at me, “Aren’t you Black?” He spoke as if it were contagious; like Blackness was some disease that he may find himself waking up with the next morning if he got too close. In white-dominated spaces, it didn’t matter that I was mixed. Once people find out that you’re Black, you’re Black.
I dreaded anytime we learned about slavery in school. I would cringe; I could feel my face going red, as I learned the watered-down version of our nation's history. I would stare into my textbook, determined to avoid eye contact with my fellow students as I was told by my teachers, “Sometimes masters were very nice to their slaves.”
School made me acutely aware of my other-ness, though I had yet to ascribe it to Blackness. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized that people treated me differently because I was one of the few Black kids. I pushed that idea out of my head, however, telling myself that racism was dead. I was convinced that there must be something wrong with me, desperate for any explanation as to why I was often singled out. In this, America had succeeded in gaslighting me.
It took years for me to really confront it. In the back of my head there was often a voice, telling me, “It’s because you’re Black.” No sooner than I thought it, I would shake it off, “No way! Get out of here. Racism is over, girl. You’re just unlikeable.”
I was positive there must be something sinister about me. Being Black in America meant that I grew nervous when my friends would tell me they wanted to introduce me to a guy. I was forced to ask myself “But does he like Black girls?”, too embarrassed to tell my friends my concerns. Growing up Black in America meant that in grade school, prior to visiting any new friends, my father would turn to me and ask “Do they know that you’re Black?”, knowing the potential rejection I could face from their family.
Growing up Black in America is hearing “You’re pretty for a Black girl,” and being expected to take it as a compliment. Growing up Black in America is seeing how astounded people are when you’re good at something aside from sports, as if to say “You’re so good at x, despite that pestering Blackness you’ve got.” It’s obnoxious when white people have selective memory of these statements. If white people felt comfortable saying disparaging things about Black people around me - either not realizing that I’m Black, or “forgetting”, saying “Not you, you’re one of the good ones,” - then I know that they say it around you, too.
Despite my experience, I grew up extremely privileged. I have light skin and straight hair, and the closer you are to the white, thin, heteronormative, patriarchal standard, the safer you are in American society. Black girls are judged on our proximity to whiteness. I became determined to let other people know I was civilized, decent, educated, polite. Look at me! I love black and white movies! I read Edgar Allan Poe! See, I’m not really Black! And these exclamation points let you know that I’m definitely not angry, because I’m always in a good mood! But wait! I’m Filipina, too! I have a quarter of white in me! If I dilute myself enough, will you please accept me?!
I don’t remember when I learned that that wouldn’t protect me. How narrow and limiting it was - and still is - to attempt to define Blackness. By trying to assimilate, I fed into the idea that Black people are not as fluid, complex, or interesting as other people. I wrongly believed that such characteristics toned down my Blackness, when instead I could use it to amplify it. I allowed myself to be influenced through a white supremacist lens and let them dictate what it meant to be Black. When I think back to these moments, there’s always a wave of shame before I feel the small seeds of forgiveness. It was protection. It was self-preservation. It was survival. I was scared. I loved my culture, my family, my people, but I was terrified of being The Black Girl. I knew the costs.
How often have you walked into a room and there weren’t people who looked like you? How many spaces have you been in where they weren’t Black girls? Do you notice that we aren’t present? Do you know how many activities and hobbies I’ve avoided trying simply because I didn’t see any Black girls doing them? We are erased, excluded, and overlooked often.
In the past, when people have witnessed my face fall during a racist remark – or later in life when I became extremely bold about calling people out – I have still been forced to control my tone. Standing up for myself has labeled me the Angry Black Girl. How many times have white men exploded at me in classrooms or living rooms about Black issues, only for my calm, confident demeanor to be met with more hostility? Even silence doesn’t work. You’re still the angry Black girl. If you confront people, you’re told “I was just joking.” If you challenge it, it’s “Don’t take it so seriously.” If you voice your concerns, it’s “You’re overreacting”. Is death the only reaction I am permitted to have?
I am careful of the way that I speak to people and the way that I navigate spaces. In professional spaces I have avoided code-switching, as I have historically been one of the only Black women or the only Black woman. When I was in my undergrad, I was determined to write a paper on body image and eating disorder prevalence within the Black community specifically. Of all the people in my class, I was the only person who essentially had to create her own case study to pull information from. There was little to no research available on Black girls having eating disorders, despite me – a Black girl – struggling with one for most of her life. Again, I felt thrust on the outer edges of identity. Again, we were forgotten.
You cannot continue to neglect us. I write this now, as Breonna Taylor’s killers still walk free. I could’ve easily been her, or Sandra Bland; yet another Black woman whose name gets lost in the staggering wave of Black women murdered by the Police. Black women are the reason for the movement. There would have been no Black Panthers, no Montgomery Bus Boycott, no MeToo, no Black Lives Matter without us. In America, Black women are at risk for higher rates of unemployment, higher chance of death during childbirth, higher risk of death from breast cancer, and more likely to be incarcerated than our non-Black counterparts. We face discrimination in every area of America, from employment, to medicine, to mental health; and the darker your pigment, the wider the gap. How many Black women have to die before you believe us? How many of us need to be denied medication before you take our pain seriously? How many of us need to suffer through years of mental illness before you diagnose us and provide us with resources? What can I say to make you invest in us, too? What do we have to say to convince you that we are also worthy of being protected?
I cannot help but be cautious and skeptical, while I am excited that the movement has taken over social media. When the posts die down and your social timeline returns to “normal”, will you continue to stand for us? Will you adjust your timeline accordingly? Will you demand dark-skin girls in media representation, when we have been given the bare minimum with ethnically ambiguous women? Will you make your movement intersectional? When you scroll down your Instagram feed and see Black Lives Matters posts in between photos of non-Black women with lip fillers and big butts and tan skin – features White Americans used to tease Black Women for – will you continue to make space for us? When you consume Black culture – sports, fashion, nearly every genre of music you have ever heard - will you love Blackness even when it’s on Black people? Will you remember Black women, always including our Trans sisters? The fight is never over until all marginalized individuals are free. This wave is just beginning, and your allyship must be as constant as our skin color.