I Drowned in a Sea of White Faces

As a toddler, I had the privilege to be shielded from reality and kept in a large bubble. This bubble was filled with my family, other students at my pre-school, the church my parents took me to, the neighborhood. A bubble that was filled with Black smiles, Black laughter, Black voices. I spent time with cousins and family friends, often playing in someone’s backyard or celebrating birthdays, baby showers, family reunions. My life was what you’d expect growing up Black.

My boat started sinking the moment I entered early education. Elementary School served as my gateway into interacting with white people. These early years formed the basis of what circles I found myself a part of and who I gravitated towards in a room. From middle school the water only got deeper. I bounced around from 3 different middle schools to find a good fit for me. After realizing I didn’t want to attend the first two, I looked back on the fun I had during elementary and how all my friends from there attended Duncan Middle School. After a few meetings and notarizing paperwork, I was able to transfer.

Duncan was a cesspool of racism, thirteen-year-old drug addicts, and WWE-esque bathroom brawls once or twice a week. My first day in class I sat at a table of 4 and the moment I spoke a white kid said, “Wow I didn’t expect you to sound like that!”. After I asked him what he did expect me to sound like he began to lower his voice and put on a blaccent. This moment solidified that I had completely strayed away from the bubble I had once found shelter in. Hispanic kids around me were all saying nigga. White kids around me were all saying nigger. One white kid in my class showed me a text thread between him and his dad. The dad had sent him a meme of a group of Africans and under the photo sent the text: “Look at these monkeys”. Looking back, I wasn’t as proactive on the issue as I should have been. I’d never dealt with this level of disrespect and hadn’t seen anyone to act as an example on what to do. I felt scared that if I called out their behavior or jokes that I’d be pushed further into isolation amongst a group that already made me feel different.

When I got to high school, I was praying that things would change. My core group of friends from middle school came with me and things were looking better. One day me and my friends all went out to the fair. We had a good time, and a lot of photos were taken. One of my friends, a white girl, posted a picture with the two of us on her Instagram. It wasn’t until a few years later when one of my other friends told me that her dad made her take the photo down after one of his friends had complained that being seen with me was a bad look. If I’m being honest when he told me, it didn’t faze me. Not until I got to college and looked back and asked myself “What the f***?”. High school was just another reiteration of the same shit I experienced in middle school. This time though the fault was on me. I was wise enough to check people on their “jokes”, micro aggressions, comments. I didn’t though and that’s something that’ll sit with me for a while.

When I look back on the fair photo, I wonder if she ever tried to push back against her dad? Stand up for me? Did her voice echo in their million-dollar home telling him that he was racist, a bigot, a coward? I knew the answer, and so I drowned. Sinking to the ocean floor as their boats casted shadows over my cold body. The constant mask of comfortability violently rushing through my lungs. My final memories replaying over and over of times I could have slapped someone, made new friendships, joined new circles. A life filled with regret.

As I touched the seabed, I realized what had been done. My parents were promised that sending me to “better” schools would better educate me and send me to the best colleges while giving me an array of opportunities. Who can say no to that? I can’t fault them, as they didn’t know any better and I wasn’t communicative of the things I was experiencing. They didn’t know their little boy would have to feel insecure about his skin tone, often reducing himself into a quiet shell just to withstand a barrage of backhanded remarks. They weren’t privy to the information that many of my teachers would assume I played football, and I’d have to backtrack and tell them that “no, I play lacrosse”. They weren’t aware that on the lacrosse team these white kids who so freely shouted slurs during practice would one day have families and kids of their own and spew that same hatred into them. They were not fortune tellers. They had no way of noticing that one day I would soon drown. A death that had been in the works for years. My eyes pried open, quickly approaching an inevitable fate, I’m able to make out something reaching for me before everything goes dark.

Washed ashore, I wake up to a beautiful sea of faces bearing Black smiles. I hear Black laughter encircling me. Black voices urging me to be myself, I’m home now. I almost drowned but my decision to be at an HBCU was my saving grace. Should I find myself back out in that ocean of hatred and sorrow, there won’t be any second guessing on whether someone is getting slapped.