“It is a peculiar sensation, this double consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”
-W.E.B Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk
I haven’t read this book yet, but I do resonate with this quote and have been thinking about it for a while. I believe the situation that Du Bois is describing could be what we now refer to as internalized racism or self-hatred. Loosely defined, internalized racism is when people exhibit racist attitudes towards people of their own ethnic or racial group, and this can even include exhibiting these attitudes towards themselves. These attitudes are usually fueled by stereotypes invented and propelled by another ethnic or racial group. While I’m now incredibly and disgustingly ashamed to admit this, especially publicly, I also participated in this. Like I mentioned in my last blog post, this is something that the black community really struggles with. It only takes one look at social media to see many black men, especially dark skinned black men, praise white and foreign girls while degrading and shaming black women in their attempts to explain their “preferences.” This is only one example of internalized racism. I never felt this kind of hatred that I exhibited towards others, but I was internally affected in other ways. As a younger child, western beauty standards that uplift and enshrine Eurocentric features – like straight hair, fair skin, thin noses, and thin lips – routinely bothered me to the point where I would feel tangible envy towards my younger brother, who was a baby at the time, who received our mom’s small nose and medium brown skin while I received our dad’s larger nose and darker features. This is known as colorism, and my internalized racism soon grew after that.
My family’s migration to the United States in 2007 was the first time that I truly became aware of my race. This is especially true after we’d moved from Georgia, where we lived for a short year, to Connecticut. I think that growing up in that particular environment really fueled my internalized racism in ways that I didn’t realize until much later. In a space where I was one of very few black students, I encountered two main types of racists: those who were blatantly and unapologetically racist, and those who were implicitly racist. I found that I didn’t quite fit in with the white kids because of cultural differences and for some, because of their racism. I also didn’t quite fit in with the black kids because well, I wasn’t what they perceived blackness to be. I found that I quickly became known as the exceptional black student. When students or teachers described me, they’d refer to me as “the smart black girl.” I was usually the only black child in my honors and AP classes or one of three or so at most. I dressed differently than the other black students – preppy, in a way that would exude that my family was well-off. In fact, when my family first arrived in Georgia and later Connecticut, I initially took to wearing Aeropostale and Hollister, the choices of the popular white kids. Even though I hated the brands, and my mom insisted that they weren’t worth the money, I did it anyways because my white peers did. I simply wanted to fit in and to feel accepted. I was proud that I had a dad that was present and active and a family that was “respectable.” I came to revel in this exceptionalism, and I craved acceptance from my white peers while still despising them for making me feel like I needed their acceptance. I was happy that I didn’t fit the typical black stereotype, and that I wasn’t just another statistic. In fact, I remember even briefly mentioning this in an introductory letter for my AP English class that was our first official assignment senior year. I wanted her to truly value and respect me as a member of the class and not as another black child to be pitied and ridiculed. Looking back, I think this was probably a result of my survival instincts kicking in, but I also have to accept responsibility for prescribing to that type of mentality. The truth is that I came to regard my family and myself as better than “the others,” especially after having it continually reinforced to me by outside sources. While I never vocalized it, I did think of myself as a “good black,” subconsciously believing in respectability politics. This started to change my sophomore year of high school, three years after moving to Connecticut.
“Suddenly, all of us lulled to sleep by stories of our black exceptionalism and lust for white acceptance realize a degree isn’t bulletproof. This system is invested in, yielding immense profit from, our death.”
-Serges Himbaza, a fellow Duke student
This is a quote from one of my peers in response to the police killings of two black men last week in Louisiana and Minnesota. It struck deep chords within me. The murder of Trayvon Martin in the spring of 2012, and the formation of the #BlackLivesMatter movement following the acquittal of George Zimmermann really revolutionized my thinking. Being the only black face and sitting in a classroom listening to students describe Trayvon Martin as a thug to justify his senseless murder forced me to confront the reality that my “exceptionalism” would never save me. I saw students use my “exceptionalism” and I to vindicate their violent racism and ignorance. I realized that my search for white acceptance would sooner kill me and dehumanize me to rationalize my murder before it ever saved my life. It was a process, and I’m still learning and growing, but this realization was pivotal. I’ve learned to truly love my blackness and all that comes with it. I’ll snatch anyone who even dares to degrade my people in my presence or otherwise (don’t try me). I’ve taken the time to learn more about our past and current struggles, even doing a spring break alternate trip this year that saw us trace the Civil Rights Movement through the various southern states. Since that time, especially since my time at Duke, I’ve taken classes on black women’s role in the Black Power Movement and African studies in an ongoing effort to educate myself. All black people, whether poor, rich, light, dark, LGBTQIA, straight, etc., all deserve to be valued and treated with respect, as does everyone else. The truth is that I’m curious and well educated, but I’m not all that exceptional. Black excellence’s not exceptional.
It is now, four years later, that I’ve once again been confronted with this idea of exceptionalism and how that relates to or fits into the much broader picture or established narrative, but in a different way. One common question that has been voiced throughout the duration of this experience has been who gets to tell the story? This question presented itself on our very first day when we toured the Vortrekker Monument, which I discussed in my first blog post. At that time, I was under the firm resolution that there was no space for the chosen narrative of our tour guide who glorified her Dutch ancestors’ violent settlement into the southern tip of Africa. While I still believe that her narrative directly aids in the degradation and subsequent erasure of native black South Africans and their disenfranchisement, I now have to wonder how do we give her space to tell her version of events that allows her to have pride in her heritage while also acknowledging the lived brutalities of the natives. So, I guess I’ve somewhat answered my first question in that I think both the “winners” of history and its victims need to be heard in order to fully understand the event and to properly memorialize it. I now have a follow-up question. Essentially, I’ve been forced to additionally ask myself, how do we sufficiently make room for all of the stories to present a nuanced depiction of the event? In my last blog post, I spoke about how I and other members of this group had noticed the stark racial division of Cape Town that seemed to mimic South African society on a whole and how this observation had been supported by multiple statements I’d heard from South Africans. To these remarks, I’d heard on more than one occasion from others that they had in fact noticed a decent amount of interracial groups. Other than prompting personal questions about the meanings of diversity and inclusion, I’ve now come to realize what was meant when that remark was made, at least in one instance. It was explained to me that this focus on the discrepancies resulted from the belief in the importance of giving attention to the abnormalities because it helps us to check our assumptions that are usually informed by stereotypes. This resonated with me because I’d also mentioned in that same blog post my problem with the representation of minorities in media, as it pertains to stereotypes. I really hadn’t realized or even thought about the possibility that maybe my insistence on adhering to what I’ve come to see as the typical landscape of Cape Town, in terms of the racial and wealth divide, was an example of stereotyping or at least relying on the pushed, uncomplicated narrative (as I like to think of it) to fuel my own surface level observations. I now see this as something that I’ve been complicit in.
To be honest, I still don’t believe that this narrative’s incorrect, as multiple South Africans have confirmed that these divisions do in fact exist, as has data. I think I’ve done a decent job at or at the very least attempted to understand how these divides formed and how they continue to manifest themselves in daily life in the South African context, especially as it pertains to my work at the Women’s Legal Centre; however, I’ve come to realize that in my inability to really see outside of this specific narrative, I’ve done Cape Town an injustice in failing to recognize it for the complex place that it is. In thinking more about this, I’ve noticed a lot of similarities between South Africa and the United States, as have many scholars. While I believe that this is quite valuable, especially in terms of dispelling the myth that racism only exists in certain areas of the world and is one dimensional, this now worries me to some extent. I now realize and worry that my focus on discerning comparisons has allowed other important observations to fall through the cracks. To demonstrate, while I have acknowledged that there are wealthy black South Africans, despite how few they are, I’ve mostly focused on the racially fuelled wealth divide. In this way, I’ve overlooked the wealthy black South Africans and subsequently their stories. Are they products of the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” tagline like my parents? Were they educated abroad or locally? How do lower-income black South Africans view them? Do they lust for societal acceptance from the Afrikaners? Their stories are important too, and I never spared them more than an idle thought because they didn’t fit into the main framework.
However, I also believe that it can be incredibly dangerous to only or primarily focus on the outliers or those that we perceive to tell a different story than what has been deemed the main narrative. Often times, as I myself have witnessed and unwittingly participated in, those seemingly rare sprinkles of deviations are manipulated to overshadow the suffering of others or used as deceiving counterarguments against progressive movements meant to end that suffering. Often times these abnormalities become cited examples for those who refuse to acknowledge that systemic problems exist because of course, there are exceptions – there are always exceptions. I’ve now found myself at a sort of crossroads. I’m trying to understand and determine how I can effectively question the status quo or the dominant narrative without feeling as if I’m also questioning or discounting people’s lived experiences. I’ve long since told myself that I believe in everyone’s right to his or hers own opinion, and that I’m willing to listen to other people’s opinions as long as they don’t call into question someone’s humanity. Looking back, that seemed like a rather easy stance to take. At this moment in time, I’m trying to resolve how I can genuinely take into consideration these abnormalities and appreciate the added complexities that they bring to the overall story without devaluing the voices whose experiences speak against these abnormalities. After all, just because one has not witnessed or personally experienced a struggle does not mean that it doesn’t exist.
At the same time, how do I work to create a space where those that don’t prescribe to the main narrative feel like they can still be a real part of the conversation? Addressing the other side, I understand how valuable personal stories can be for forming deep, meaningful connections with people and for adding “a face” to a seemingly abstract concept or struggle. Despite this, I also question how can I actively listen to and learn from their experiences without tokenizing them as a part of my self-growth and increased awareness? As a minority myself, especially one that has been treated the way we have, I know how taxing and triggering it can be to constantly have to share your “story,” especially since quite frankly, not everyone necessarily deserves to hear it. As I’ve suspected, this trip has left me asking a lot of questions, and the ratio of these questions to actual answers is quite high. While I haven’t figured out the answers to all of these questions and probably won’t for awhile, I do know one thing for certain: since having that conversation, I’ve pledged myself to continuously challenge the face value appearance of what’s perceived to be “normal” and to question why that is. Sometimes, the question of why a group of people perceive something to be a particular way can be more important than whether or not their perceived reality is “accurate” or not. After all, it takes much more energy to look beyond the surface, doesn’t it?
Thank you Kelsey.
