(Meshayla Cox is a student studying Spanish Education and African American studies at the University of Montana - Misssoula)
My
life thus far has been, to a great extent, a struggle of searching for my black
identity. I have spent a large part of my life trying to ignore the hardships
that come with being a woman of color, as well as trying to ignore my own
self-identity as one. My mother and father are both black but "black
history" wasn’t necessarily something preached in my household and it
definitely wasn’t something I was learning in my history classes at school.
Photo: Meshayla Cox
Although
I grew up in Southern California, a place known for its racial diversity, I
always found myself grouped in with the white kids at school. Looking back now
I realize this was due to my need to be accepted as one of them. I went through
my younger years always being the token black friend, the butt of the jokes, or
the one exoticized and aestheticized.
To
the untrained mind there are plenty of “subtle” racist stereotypes and
characteristics about black people that inevitably affect the way we view
ourselves, as well as the way the world views us.
As
a result, I grew up slowly learning to hate my skin.
I
would avoid being in the sun too long in fear of becoming “too dark” and steer
clear of using certain words in fear of sounding “too black”, and never get too
mad, because you don’t want to be the “sassy” or “ghetto” black girl that’s
portrayed in the media.
The
moment I started noticing boys was easily the best and worst time of my life. I
quickly started to realize that I wasn’t the girl they were going to actually
date or pay genuine attention too, and as a result I felt the need to distance
myself from my black identity. Looking back I can remember the exact moment
when this happened. When I was a young girl, my mother would braid my hair, but
in ninth grade one incident changed my appreciation of my beautiful black
braids. A boy I had a crush on decided to call me "the predator" in
reference to the move Alien and Predator, which showcases a ugly alien thing
that had dreadlocks. That is definitely the last thing any 13 year old wants to
hear from the cute boy in her class.
Photo: imdb.com
This
ignited a long four years of weave-wearing, sun-avoiding, and race-denying.
Over this time I found myself claiming all of the different, non-black heritage
in my family to try and distance myself from my suddenly unappealing African
ancestry, and finding refuge in the phrase “You’re so whitewashed”. I began associating
solely with white people, anything to hide from my inherent blackness. I was
terrified of being seen by others as the ugly, angry, black girl that I saw
myself as.
Photo: Meshayla Cox
It
wasn’t until my freshman year of college at the University of Montana when I
finally got the confidence to once again travel into the scary land of afrocentric
hairstyles. The braids were back! And they were a success. Unknown to everyone
else, this moment was most definitely the first step toward accepting my black
identity.
This
process was propelled forward by the shooting of Michael Brown in 2014, an
unarmed black teenager killed by a white policeman in Ferguson, Missouri. This
situation brought to my attention the widespread epidemic of police aggression
against people of color, which in turn sparked a national conversation about
race and racism in America. Until this moment, I thought racism was only
present in bitter old white people or the wannabe cowboys that attended my high
school.
Photo: bet.com
As
a result I signed up for a college class that very simply changed my life, my
views, and my way of thinking. The class was “Black: Africa to Hip-Hop,” taught
by Dr. Tobin Shearer at my school, the University of Montana in Missoula. In
this class we talked about the side of American history that my previous
history teachers seemed to have avoided like the plague, the part that spoke
about the genocide, injustice, and oppression of African Americans. I would
leave every class just bursting at the seams, needing to tell people about all
that I had learned about my people. . . MY people. This college course showed
me that I do have a people and a history, and although we have been through
terrible times and are still working against a system put in place to keep us
down, I have so much to be proud of and so much to stand up for! I have learned
to accept my wonderful kinky hair, my perfectly sassy personality, and my wonderful
dark skin, all gifted to me by my strong and beautiful black ancestors.
Photo: Meshayla Cox
My
journey to discovering and accepting my black identity has been long, but I am
so glad I can finally stand up and proclaim:
I am black, oh so black, and I am proud!
Photo: Meshayla Cox
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