Wake up Sis

I have something to say!

If you are guessing I am not professing my love for Jesus, Micheal B. Jordan, or the show The Office. I am speaking about something I should have addressed and been convicted about a long time ago. My opinions on the Black Lives Matter movement are very important. Now, some of you may assume that I am for the movement because of all this melanin dripping off of me. However, assuming causes a lot of trouble as we can see and is one of the reasons I need to speak up. Systemic racism is a real problem many white people are starting to learn, me included. Yep, this black girl. My negligence in this crisis can be explained by many statistics that I do not have the fervor, patience, or talent to debate, especially against the white privileged masses. Therefore it is best that I tell a story of how negligence borders the line of racism.

This story has only been told to a few select parties but now needs to be shared in a more wide capacity. The inspiration to release this story is a response to a video I saw of this black girl denouncing the police in one of the many protests. In this video, the young lady is crying to the police officer that three of her brothers were killed by police brutality. Her passion in her body and speech made me believe her, but her eyes--the key to the soul--ignited something in me that I have pushed down for far too long: FEAR and ANGER. At that moment I knew I had to submit my little contribution to help end police brutality and racism. Though you can not see the passion in my face and eyes like this girl, I hope my words will garner just a fraction of her intensity, especially since it is my story.

The Fantasy: Part 1

As a little girl growing up in Montgomery, Alabama there were only two things that really had my attention: school and the media. They are most culpable for my apathy towards the black community, my community.

Montgomery County schools, in Montgomery, Alabama is where I spent my earliest and most vulnerable stages of learning. I learned my ABC's, how Europeans took slaves, Abraham fixed slavery, and then how Martin and Rosa created a fairytale ending to racism in the U.S.--in that order. This education was awesome like whip cream, it goes great with anything short and sweet. Furthermore, it was satisfactory enough to pass me into the next grade. However, this education failed to teach me the long division still in this country. So, whenever I saw black kids being discriminated against I became indifferent because Martin and Rosa and Abraham fixed that. Right?

A few years later my dad got a new job in Cincinnati, Ohio and sadly we had to move. Though, Ohio was a free state for slaves that meant zilch to my anti-black mindset. I was now in white suburbia; Starbucks, JcPenny, Dick's Sporting goods galore. As I entered Fairfield City Schools I came into the early icky stages of my adolescence. With all these hormones--defiance, independence, and insecurity--I gravitated to anyone who made me feel worthy. I grew comfortable in my new environment and allowed complacency to fester for the next 5 years.

As I grew older and police brutality in the U.S. grew, I knew I could not deny that racism was not dead. However, some part of me--elementary school Zoie--knew racism was corrected. Therefore I became unfortunately confused by these blatant acts of racism and could not pick a position. Eventually, to clear the noise I began to rationalize these unjust murders. Rationalizing racial tensions kept me in a box, where I decided race would be a non-factor. My coping mechanism was to replace crisis with fantasy and it worked for a while, but even that came with a price.

Entering high school I became extremely indifferent. I became deaf to the cries of black students who spoke about mistreatment. I never questioned why my teacher's never taught us about Juneteenth, Huey Newton, and Islamophobia on 9/11. I did not even react when a white girl said "I did not know black people had period's" mainly because she was just STUPID. Nevertheless, I thought I was above discrimination and racism. Furthermore, as my grades maintained A status, and I properly groomed myself nobody saw the warning signs.

The Fantasy: Part 2

Raven-Symone, Brenda Song, Corbin Blue, Rico of Hannah Montana, and Dora made believe that the only race was the HUMAN race. However, the fact that I can only name 4 colored actors plus an animated character proves how brainwashed I was. Nick and Disney gave watered-down racism episodes with a fairytale ending, where the racists are defeated and the just prevails; these episodes were a dream compared to reality. I appreciate the safe environment and happy endings to uncomfortable discussions, but you made a mistake.

As I entered my teen years and the options of cinema broaden I limited my options to white-washed chick flicks. I decided that any cinema with an all-black cast would be deemed as an uncomfortable viewing experience. So, as I filled myself with love stories and humor, I lost my foundation. My stepping stones were crumbling because I did not care to take care of them. I thought I could be myself without that black attached to my skin. I was big-time falling into a sunken place and I did not know if I had the strength to GET OUT!

The Warnings Signs

I was diseased in the most fatal of places--the heart. Seeing my blackness as a weakness and something that would offend people was killing me. Trying so hard in high school to be politically correct made me forget that people slaved for me. The constant shudders I would have when racial talk would happen in class, the "Thank you" I would say when someone said of white-descent said they wish they had hair like mine, my happiness when the slavery unit was over in history class: these were severe symptoms, warning signs. It was a matter of time before my humanity was pronounced deceased.

The Climax: Judgement Day

It was the day to vote for the senior class council, a body I envisioned as a melting pot of representation giving voice to every social division in our school populous. However, a question was posed that would destroy my carefully formulated senior utopia. A student blatantly asked, “Does this sound like a black name to you?” She squinted at the name on the ballot and nonchalantly said, “I think so.” Her intent was to have an all-black council. This disturbed me. I sensed a crater forming in my box.

In my opinion, regardless of skin color, qualification is determined by one's talent, character, and perseverance—these separate the mediocre from the great. In my box, race is a non-factor; I believe every individual should be judged by these attributes. And so, I expressed my philosophy by voting my conviction.

Later that day, my friends and I were discussing a question every college asks a promising student: “Did you have any struggles?” As we pondered the question, a girl alluded to the fact that I am black and, suddenly, my box’s solid walls became paper-thin. I proceeded to laugh at her insinuation, opining that she was a victim of the false teaching that alleges all black people have the same struggle—silly creature. Her observation was not taken seriously, yet I was not ready for the ugly truth headed my way.

At home that evening, my family and I were watching the hidden camera television series, “What Would You Do?” that examines how the public responds to different social scenarios. This episode dealt with a football coach advising his player of the consequences of kneeling for the National Anthem. I told my parents that I would become taciturn if witnessing that situation because I could not identify with his struggle as an African-American student-athlete. My parents were shocked by my response; their shock transformed into disappointment in themselves rather than in me. They realized that they had not done their due diligence: they had not given me “the talk.” Subsequently, they did, however, saying in essence: You are black and, because of implicit as well as explicit biases, you will be treated differently by many. Therefore, you must work twice as hard to be half as successful. Translation: my character, talent, and perseverance meant little to the bullet of racism.

At that moment, I realized that my box had crumbled. I had two options: let my Blackness, which has never defined me, dictate my future aspirations, or be the person who controls her own fate, even though others may prefer to characterize me on their terms. Should I let the world now label my box based on its prejudices, or should I strive beyond ‘the box’ that I found so valuable to my comfort zone?

I chose the latter.

Fast Foward:2020

I’m presently living life outside the box. I know who I am. I am black. I am strong. I am aware. I can now exercise that faith that allows me to walk in the confidence of

my talent, my character, and my perseverance. I'm ready to break free and conquer the big black elephant in the room. I can now effectively use all the tools in my box as I actualize my successful future. My tools: Jesus, my faith in him knowing whatever obstacles come he will always goodness will prevail. My family, their unconditional love for me is peace in the midst of the storm surrounding me. Being black, it is a gift that gives strength, creativity, longsuffering, and joy through every circumstance. With these three I am ready for the fight.

Thanks so much for reading this. This piece is very important and I will certainly continue writing more pieces like this. So, if you have a story similar to this one please hit me up!