My African-American Experience

One of the most vivid memories from my childhood derives from an annual trip to an Orlando, FL amusement park with my Grandparents when I was five. While standing in for a water ride, a girl my age kept poking me asking, “What’s wrong with your skin? What’s wrong with you?” I didn’t know what she was talking about. I knew that I was in a very white area, but a little girl who has never seen a black person before amazed me. I explained to her that I was born like this and there are a lot of other people like me in the world, just not here. I was never mad at the little girl, but growing up, I questioned myself. I was raised knowing humans come in different colors. Despite this upbringing, I struggled with accepting the color of my skin.

Only small units of civil rights and slavery were taught as if that was it to my existence and how I got to be where I was. I was always feeling like an outsider. My history was never talked about, and it made me uneasy. I understood Black to be a derogatory word; perhaps due to the fact that my teachers became extremely nervous and cautious when addressing my race, using the term African American. I never understood that there was more to it. I would only reference myself as African American. I remember the questioning looks and how my family taunted me because I was uncomfortable with the word. It wasn’t until high school that I started saying the word

I was ready to take a class addressing black history, but was disappointed to find no classes even close, especially with my high school promoting how diverse they are to the community. Sophomore year, I saw the bond between the black students. I understood why my mom made me become friends with the other two black girls, who are two of my closest friends now. We have to stick together and bring each other up. This shared experience bonds us, like a family especially while being at a boarding school where you’re away from home for an extended period of time. Being a minority is not easy but it is how I am. I embrace all that comes with it. I love being black, and what it means to be black. It took me awhile to get there, but I am loving every second of it, even though it means I have to work twice as hard just for the color of my skin, and three times as hard because of my gender. However, I’m not done. I will fight for a black history/black culture class. I don’t want other kids to make the same mistake that I did; taking too long to realize the beauty of being black. I want to educate everyone. Students still think it’s okay to rock the confederate flag on t-shirts and say the n word. I spent countless hours researching school curriculums of black history classes, and have had countless meetings with administration and the head of school. All that work paid off. Westtown