Steffany

More and more, on this campus and in the rest of the world, I’m aware of the perceptions people hold regarding who I am. For instance, any sign of passion, or my choosing not to be passive, immediately puts me in the Angry Black Woman category. It’s not that I’m actively seeking to defy this stereotype; that’s not my burden to bear. However, when those tropes are used to minimize my viewpoints or accomplishments, it becomes a problem.

A friend, also a black woman, told me that she’s constantly downplaying herself and her feelings for fear of being seen as “too much.” Increasingly, I understand why my mom said that being at the intersection of blackness and womanhood means that people project their prejudices onto you. For so long, I internalized the prejudice: I didn’t laugh as loudly as I might, or state proudly that I’m beautiful. Although these are things I find to be true, black women aren’t allowed to be “arrogant.” But, at this point, I’m going to have the audacity to love myself.

I spent the entire weekend dancing around with my squad of black girls and absorbing the value of being empowered by people who look like you and who share your experiences. We’re not exclusive to be “radical,” we’re exclusive for our own survival. Sometimes self-care means leaning on people who can understand your experience from a very personal viewpoint. It’s such a relief to know that it’s not all in my head: these girls have been through similar things, and it doesn’t stop just at the school, it’s life.

Articulating my experience to people who don’t understand how frustrating it is to be underestimated or talked down to is very difficult in the context of my school. Mick Jenkins performed at my college, and his political message was constantly cut short by white audience members stage diving and harming others, or literally yelling over him. He asked for silence as he spit bars and anecdotes about police brutality and seeking truth, yet the crowd wouldn’t be quiet, not even for the show’s headliner. “Fuck the Police” was a rallying cry they got behind, until Mick said, “A young n**** got it bad because I’m brown.” The extent of their interaction with the police is being hounded for smoking weed in public, whereas my interaction with police could result in death or serious injury—plus sprinkled racial expletives for added effect. To be confronted with these things in your day-to-day life is a struggle. Not that this threat wasn’t apparent before, but I’ve gone from a predominantly black community and school system to a PWI (predominantly white institution).

Amidst all of this, I’ve engaged in activism off the internet: There’s been a fire lit under my ass. Having conversations and actively doing the work is important to me now more than ever. I can’t react and fight every racist microaggression or overt statement. No one wins from me calling someone out every chance I can get. Also, I have to conserve my mental energy.

The redeeming factors in my week include hugging the musician Uniiqu3 and her telling me I smell good. Seeing a black woman behind the decks play some awesome fucking music, I danced my frustrations away. (I also saw Mick Jenkins up close, he’s way attractive!)

Discussing all my feelings with my girls has me realizing, in a weird way, that college is preparing me for life beyond college. This is just the beginning of being undermined. I may never learn to get used to it, but it’s something I’ll have to live with. That just comes with the territory. As a reminder to self, I scribbled on a piece of paper: “No longer will I minimize myself to increase the comfort of others. I embody black excellence. Blackness and womanhood are an essential part of my being. I love myself and won’t let anyone dim my light. I am too brilliant for that.” I hope that someone reading this will embody that message, as I try to myself. ♦