Being from Chicago, my parents never gave me the option of going to public school. They grew up within the Chicago Public School system and refused to send me anywhere that was not private, Catholic, or both. As a result, when it came time for high school, I applied to seven different private high schools. I was fortunate enough to be accepted into all seven leaving the decision up to me. I had a variety of schools to choose from: I applied to an art school, a large co-ed Catholic school, several charter schools; while they were all approved by my parents, they were all very different. Ultimately, I chose a small, all girls boarding school. With less than 200 students, my parents were sold on the idea that I would get the attention and resources I needed to get into a good college. They did not anticipate the nightly phone calls from me in tears, the microaggressions, or the deep depression I would fall into. Yet here I am, soon to be four years later, reflecting on my time here. Here’s what I have learned.
I could have transferred, I wanted to so badly. What reason did I have to stick around? I went from one of many black faces to being the only black body in my grade. I went from being Jerusalem (whoever that was in middle school) to being the voice of a race. By second semester freshman year, I was mentally exhausted. I tried fitting in; I was the “Black Friend” that let them say ‘nigga’ and “didn’t care”. I tried to spend money my family did not have in order to replicate a reality I did not know. From processing microaggressions to typical high school induced growing pains, I felt like I was drowning. I could rant endlessly about the pretension and gross showing of wealth I saw all around me. I stuck out like a sore thumb racially, physically, and socioeconomically. It was hard to grapple with my mere existence being so radically different than the norm.
One night, I confided in the only Black houseparent about how I was feeling. Not only did I tell her about my feelings but I also told her about the eating disorder I had developed. I knew I needed help and could not take it anymore. My school mandated that I saw a psychologist before being allowed to re-enter school. This night would change my life because I would begin to see Dr. Eric*, a middle aged black man that could have been my grandfather. While he was avidly pro-black and proud, he never forced his ideals on me. Instead, he would let me explore my complicated feelings about being black and a woman within the majority white space I was attempting to navigate. He did, however, introduce me to an essay written by Zora Neale Hurston, How It Feels To Be Colored Me. Zora wrote this essay after her time at Barnard. In her time there, she was Barnard’s sole black student. Her story paralleled mine; in reading the first paragraphs, I felt validated. But in one paragraph in particular she says, ““Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.”
I was shell shocked when I read this. I remember writing down these words in my journal. I wanted to commit them to memory; I wanted to remind myself that I was dark rock which could remain itself even though it was surrounded, even submerged by water at times. It was in the weeks and months following that I began to settle into myself. Luckily for me, this was the same time that the #BlackGirlMagic and #CarefreeBlackGirl movements began to take off respectively. I found representation on Tumblr, Twitter, etc of other black and brown girls freeing themselves from eurocentric ways of thinking. Likewise, I was fortunate enough to spend two weeks in South Africa on a mission trip that same year. It was as if a switch was flipped; I was no longer floundering or flailing. I was grounded in myself, grounded in my melanin. I began to combat microagressions. No they could not touch my hair. Yes black lives do matter. Yes he had his hands up. He was an 18 year old boy, not a ‘demon’. I began to take back my voice, no longer allowing them to use it whenever they had a question about my culture or my people. I started reading works from James Baldwin, Angela Y. Davis, and Langston Hughes. The change, or my journey to becoming ‘woke’ was slow but steady. To be perfectly honest, my parents planted the seed in my childhood. Between my father’s constant playing of James Brown’s “I’m Black and I’m Proud” to my mother’s weekly lessons about a significant Black historical figure, I had been primed for this realization my whole life. By the end of the year, it was to be expected that I spoke up in literature class when discussing works like To Kill A Mockingbird or Huckleberry Finn. Jerusalem was your go to for social justice and political debate. I was not the same girl I was when I entered high school.
This is not to say I cut all my friends off or somehow sparked a revolution. I have white friends, Mexican friends, Chinese friends, etc. But it was in being surrounded by something so starkly different (and constricting to be frank) that I found my own identity. So as I begin my senior year, start applying to colleges, and thinking about the future, I take solace in the growth that has taken place. My school has given me memories, good, bad, and other, that cannot be erased. It has made me who I am. Likewise, it has given me the tools and mindset to become the woman I am meant to be. The past three years have been rough; there were some uphill battles and heartbreaking defeats that life handed me. But I relish in the fact that I stuck through to the finish line. These years, for better or worse, showed me how to be colored me.
