June 2020
It had been a couple of months since I joined the youth group leadership team at my church in Texas. I was not really excited to be there, and at this point I already wanted out. I had, however, committed to being involved for a full year. I felt pressured to join by the youth pastor who was my friend at the time. He asked me to join in the presence of others, and it felt rude to say no or tell him I wanted to think about it more.
But that is not the point of bringing this story up. It was June 2020 and the youth group had just begun to meet in person again (with masks and distancing). Now June 2020 means something different to everyone I’m sure. At this point in the year, my world has been shaken. Just three months prior my dad was in the hospital with Covid. Just a few weeks earlier, George Floyd had been killed.
The youth pastor, my friend, approached me to see if I would talk to the youth group kids about what had happened. I agreed, but now I wish I had never agreed. I’ve always been the person who wants to listen and process before speaking. It can take me a long time to process something; in some cases it has taken years. At this point, it had not even been a month since Floyd’s murder.
This was a time when a handful of my white acquaintances contacted me wanting to know what to think and feel and do. But, to be honest, I had no idea what they should think or feel or do. I only knew that I felt angry, sad, afraid, and powerless. I was still living with all of these feelings when I spoke to the youth group. I don’t really remember what I said. I don’t think what I said was bad, but I also don’t think it was helpful. My tongue was jumbled as I just tried to convey the humanity of everyone involved. But I also look back now and see that I was afraid: Three students in the group had police officers in their families. What could I say? What couldn’t I say? Why couldn’t I have told my friend no or that I needed more time?
I wish I hadn’t spoken.
But I do wish I had spoken in 2011 when two of my high school “friends” (both white and male) told me to my face that they would never date a Black girl. It should have been obvious to me at that point that they were not my friends. One attempted to cheat off of me during tests in class multiple times. The other only talked about himself in our conversations. Both only seemed to care about me when I brought gifts and, being the young freshman that I was, I brought gifts often. I made countless friendship bracelets and shared baked goods and gave away my spare guitar picks. And all I got in return from them was what I can now only describe as amusement at me. But still, all throughout our first year of high school these guys would show up at my locker and expect my attention.
I don’t know why I didn’t speak up. Those two guys and I were in conversation with two other Black girls when they said that. They high fived each other while us gals just kind of sat back in silence. I wish that I had said something like “that’s a pretty awful thing to say.” We were all 13, 14, and 15. I doubt they would have done more than ignore me at school. Instead, I internalized their declaration. I thought there was something inherent in me that meant I could never be beautiful enough. I wish I had spoken up instead of internalizing their remarks. I wish I had the courage to simply ask “why.”
And I wish I had spoken up in 2015 when a professor in college asked me to explain why Black people could say the n-word and no one else could. I was the only Black person in the room. I stumbled over my words as I tried to explain that I’d been raised to never say that word. It didn’t seem to be enough for the professor, as he kept pressing. My best friend at the time shot her hand up. He ignored her until I gave up on a response. He called on my friend who did not attempt to answer the question, instead telling the professor he shouldn’t have called me out like that. He did later apologize, but I already felt small.
And I wish I had spoken up in 2020 when, in my first year of my doctoral program, one of my peers approached me to ask if I wanted to be apart of a group of graduate students that were going to talk to the undergrads about a new club a contingent of the undergrads wanted to start up. The club was to focus on fostering dialogue on issues of race, and my peer did not think the club was a good idea. I had not heard about the club proposal until this peer approached me, and it seemed suspicious that he would be so vehemently against such a club. I think he ultimately figured out that I wanted nothing to do with helping him push against something that undergraduate students saw a need for, but it makes me wish I had investigated more. I wish I could have had the time and bandwidth to help the students who I believe were responding to their environment and the world and wanted to have the hard discussions around race that the university, quite frankly, was not having.
I witnessed the vitriol against the club myself a year after the club was finally approved early in 2021. In 2022 I was asked to be a part of a panel on a book about James Baldwin, someone who I had read for the first time only months prior and yet had already begun to wrestle with and love. The panel was cosponsored by the student club and featured the author of the book, an undergraduate student, a member of the faculty, and myself. One of my friends posted about the event on Facebook and was met with discouraging remarks from one of our professors. As I was to briefly speak at the event, I felt discouraged. I had previously admired this professor. I had been excited about the event, but suddenly I began to feel sad, anxious, and small. I wish I had spoken up instead of internalizing.
But something happened leading up to the event. My friends rallied around me. The friend who had posted about the event on Facebook talked to me about that faculty member’s comment and he was a great comfort. Other friends told me they were trying to clear their schedules to show up at the event. One friend even spent the afternoon/early evening leading up to the event with me, letting me talk through what I hoped to say and encouraging me. I will always remember that and be grateful.
This reflection is much longer than I would have liked. I will close with a few more thoughts: I’m still the same woman who will tell you that I prefer to listen than speak. I’m still the same woman who takes years to process life events. I’m still the same woman who has to let things stew around in her head before forming a complete thought.
I know none of these stories of deep consequence. I know I have lived a relatively privileged life. But one of my friends told me that my stories matter too, so I’m trying to share.
I’m still learning to speak up. I hope it might get easier with time.
I have some news: I’ve started an Instagram account to post about Black history! On this account, I chronicle my travels, both local and national, and talk about what I’m learning along the way. If you’d like to join me and learn with me, my account is @blackhistorysites. Thanks for reading!
Thank you
I am so, so thankful that you are exemplifying the type of intellectual and emotional wrestling we should all (of whatever color or nation) undertake when faced with these events. Invoking a black and white response—a dogma—should not continue to be the immediate impulse.