black
As a black female academic, I know only too well what it feels like to have people look right though you. Let me give one instance — from just a few weeks ago, when I felt unrecognized for who I am.
I approached the podium of the lecture hall at the university at which I am a tenured professor. It was the first day of class and the instructor of the previous course was still around, talking informally with her students. Looking around the podium, I noticed that the classroom was not equipped with a computer.
I asked my colleague, whom I did not know, if there was a computer hidden in the cabinet. She proceeded to instruct me: “Faculty are provided computers, they bring their computers, and use a dongle to project on the screen.”
Her words told me she didn’t recognize me as faculty; she did not see me as professor.
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Here’s what it means to be unapologetically Black: full lips, natural curves, kinky curly coils, shaded brown skin, and thus relentless criticism for being what was once believed to be despicable and unworthy of many people (particularly white).
Yes, once upon a time, our skin complexion was too grungy for pools, our juicy lips weren't allowed to share water fountains, and our round bottoms weren't welcome to sit any and everywhere.
At some point, Black became “in” amongst the white race (or maybe it always was, secretly, of course), beginning with the tanning and plastic surgery, and now our overall style, thanks to celebrities like Miley Cyrus and Kylie Jenner, who have blatantly stole what was once ours and made it theirs. Or so the rest of the world would have you believe.
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Why has it taken almost 75 years for the American Ballet Theatre to have an African American as the first principal ballerina?
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I know that in a lot of ways I am a cultural and ethnic enigma. But discussing my identity all the time can get old. Like, real old, real fast.
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