By Taren Swartz
One of my first memories of encountering racism occurred in first grade, when I was playing at recess. My friend mentioned something along the lines of “all black people are niggers.”
I was raised in the village of Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania by my grandparents. Not dissimilar to the rest of the town, my grandparents are very white and very conservative. To this day, neither of them acknowledge my siblings and I are Black. Rather, they say we are “mixed.” They completely erased my sisters’ and I’s identity as Black women. It was made clear from a very young age that we would never be fully accepted--even in our own home.
My appearance was always seen as proof of my otherness. My hair was constantly questioned, touched, and “boinged” by students. My eye color was questioned. Other kids placed their arms next to mine and said, “look I’m almost as dark as you,” when they returned from vacation. These comments were almost always followed by questions about my true ethnicity and race. These general microaggressions were accompanied by personal attacks: questioning everything from my flesh to my integrity.
I remember my crush telling me I should kill myself because I was a nigger. I remember being told “no boys will ever like you because you’re Black.” I remember when a classmate of mine looked me in the face and told me “You’re a stupid nigger, you’re not supposed to be smart, you shouldn’t be getting better grades than me because I’m white.” I remember refusing to listen to any rap music because I didn’t want to be called ghetto or uneducated. I remember the countless times other students counted us, the Black students, in the hallway and barked at us when we walked by. I remember students on XBOX Live calling me a “coon,” “nigger,” and “mixed breed.” I remember being stared at during the few lessons about slavery or Black people. I remember when our school allowed an athlete who was caught with blackface to continue to compete. I remember being told to go back to Africa. I remember being told, “I wish we were back in slavery days so you could be my slave.” I remember crying everyday and being terrified to go to lunch, often eating under the stairs or in the bathroom until I got caught. I remember getting off the bus one day and having one of my neighbors drive by and scream “nigger” as I ran up my driveway.
These comments haunt me, echoing in the back of my mind anytime I’m the only Black person in the room.
I found ways to cope. I became desensitized to the slurs and comments. I started using self-deprecating humor so others couldn’t beat me to the punch. Then, like my grandparents, I did everything I could physically do to erase my blackness. I hid from the sun in the summer for fear I’d get too dark. I used lightening creams on my skin. I bleached and relaxed my hair to destroy my thick dark curls. I did anything to make my features appear less Black. I did anything to be more white, to be more liked. I even went as far to try to explain to people that “because ethnicity goes by your mother, and my mom’s white, I must be white too.”
The year before -- my senior year of high school -- I approached a student who was wearing a Confederate flag T-shirt with the line “ask me about my flag” and of course, being the outspoken individual I am, I did. This, in addition to other racist confrontations, was witnessed by teachers and staff. They reacted to these interactions not by punishing hateful comments, but by mediation, ensuring an argument didn’t escalate to a physical fight. We, as Black students, were expected to be calm and rational, to accept the overt discrimination as a difference in opinion. In essence, they were telling us to be quiet. Silence allowed them to ignore the overarching issue of racism within the district.
My story is not unique. There are many other minority students in South Middleton School District who suffered through self-hate due to varying levels of discrimination: whether it be due to race, religion, and/ or sexuality. Anything outside of the white-cis-hetro norm was targeted.
I’ve been struggling to find the words to explain the pain surrounding this issue. A lot have been blocked from my memory. Unearthing these repressed traumas was extremely difficult. But if I am going to continue to ask others about their experiences in order to learn, grow, and hopefully make positive changes towards inclusivity, I need to be forward and transparent about my story as well.
To say that I do not harbor a lot of resentment and anger towards SMSD would be a lie. I’ve chosen to leave out the names of my oppressors and bystanders, but I will never forget their actions, or lack thereof. I’m not searching for apologies. I don’t want to be the ground for white people to express their guilt in order to foster self-improvement. I often find myself in Facebook arguments with people from my hometown who never quite grasped the severity of their words and actions. Oftentimes I’m asked, “Why do you bother arguing with them? It’s not like you can change their minds.” My goal when engaging in arguments about my race is to ensure that my voice is being heard. It’s not to change the other person’s mind, but rather to provide an opposing viewpoint which is inexplicably hard to refute.
No one can argue my Black experience.
You’re trying too hard.
You’re trying too hard.
Speak how the rest of them do, you’re all the same.
Stop trying to act white.
You’re trying too hard.
Do you like cornbread?
What about fried chicken?
Collard greens?
Grape Kool-Aid?
Watermelon?
You’re trying too hard.
Speak up.
Don’t be too aggressive.
You don’t actually care, more sincerity.
You aren’t loud enough.
You’re too loud.
Take it.
Defend yourself.
Take it.
Your skin is too white.
Your nose it too black.
You don’t count.
Why would you ever want to be darker?
You’re trying too hard.
You have blonde hair.
Stop trying to look white.
Your eyes are green?
You’re trying too hard.
That’s such a white girl thing to like.
That’s such a black girl thing to do.
You aren’t like the other black kids, you’re different.
Nigger.
Coon.
Half-breed.
Hybrid.
Go back to Africa.
You’re Jamaican, do you smoke pot?
You should get dreads.
Don’t you know how to do your own hair?
That’s such a white outfit.
You look really ghetto in those shoes.
Take off your hat.
Never keep your hands in your pockets in public places,
people will think you’re stealing.
Always look the clerks in the eye and greet them.
Don’t touch that.
Can you afford that?
You’re trying too hard.
You’re not black, you’re white.
You’re not white, you’re black.
You’re trying too hard.
Never stand too close, they’ll think you’re going to rob them.
Don’t wear nice clothes.
Change your hairstyle.
I liked it better when you looked more white.
Be who you want to be.
Be who you are.
Who am I?
What am I?
I am a person. I am bi-racial.