By Erin Joshua, M.Ed

In a southern small town far far away... lived a little black girl who “wasn’t like other black people.” For as long as I can remember white people and black people alike have been telling me that I am “not like other black people.” I have been told this by my friends, my family, co-workers, and even people I have dated. One guy even told me that dating me was like dating a black girl and a white girl at the same time, because I had a “black girl body” but I didn’t “act” like a black girl. 

White people are always so shocked that I am “so well spoken” and the fact that I have two degrees is always met with shock and curiosity. For as long as I can remember, every black person I met has told me that I “talk white.”  The music I listened to, the way I dressed, or the movies I love, have been classified as “white people stuff.” A white friend of mine once told me that she was “blacker than me” because she knew the lyrics to a popular rap song that I hadn’t heard of at the time. 

For example, I love the Star Wars movies! I love the storylines, the character development, the age old battle between good and evil, and most of all I LOVE me some Han Solo. So does loving Star Wars mean that I can’t also love The Wood? I can’t appreciate the relationships between black men and friendships that have stood the test of time? I can’t fantasize about Han Solo and Omar Epps both? Why does my love for one thing disqualify me from another set of things? 

So the struggle for me my whole life has been “what is blackness?” How can you classify it? I am a black woman. Born and raised in the south to my black mother and father who always made sure I knew everything that came with that. I knew the good, the bad, and the ugly. My parents made sure I was proud of my heritage but they also made sure I understood that everyone wasn’t going to appreciate my blackness.

And no matter how many degrees I get or how much Star Wars trivia I have in my brain, my heart still races when I get pulled over by the police. I still make sure my hands are at ten and two. Scared to death that the cop might think I am reaching for a gun instead of my license and registration. Knowing that how many “white” things I like won’t matter to someone racist if they are dead set on killing me because all they see is my skin color. It doesn’t disqualify me from the pain, anguish, and terror I feel every time another innocent black life is taken.

So what does the statement “you aren’t like other black people” say about your thoughts of black people as a whole? What assumptions have you created in your head about what black people are “supposed” to be? What stereotypes are you pushing? These types of comments have always made me feel like I should be ashamed of my “blackness” in front of non-black people and I should hide my “non-blackness” from my black counterparts. Like somehow I should pick and choose how I live my life based on what other people think is acceptable for black people. 

For me it isn’t about black or white or any other color for that matter. I belt out all the lyrics to Ed Sheeran and Megan Thee Stallion with the same intensity! I know every N’SYNC and New Edition song, and could probably bust out choreography from both groups. Being black isn’t just one thing or another. It isn’t the cadence in my voice, my youtube playlist, or whether or not I love A Different World more than The Gilmore Girls. My blackness is the conscious decision I make everyday to be proud of who I am. To live my truth. To like what I like. To represent my people the very best way I know how. To fight for our rights. To educate our children. To be kind to people, loving others as I love myself, and reminding them everyday that black people are not a monolith. Just like our skin comes in all shades and colors so do our personalities. So for my black girls out there that might feel “different,” you are not alone. There is nothing wrong with you. Stay strong! Keep hope alive and may the force be with you. 

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