The Only Black Kid in the Class: A Foreshadow

Being "the only black kid in the class" was never anything new.

I expected it. To be candid, if it wasn’t just me, I was surprised — and grateful. 

I starkly recall a moment in my 10th grade English class, popcorning around the room. As I followed along, skimming down the page, I saw the word "negro" on the horizon. My heartbeat quickened, anxiously anticipating the awkward moment ahead. My classmate read up to the word and paused. Uncomfortably so. The kind of pause where you can almost hear the crickets. I looked up, along with many other students, wondering why. I saw him cut his eyes toward me, with a guilty, sheepish look. 

This is one of many experiences I had as the only black kid in the classroom, a primer to what would become one of many experiences as the only black person in the office. Office discussions on whether or not it’s okay to say “n***a,” conveniently held the day you’re on PTO, and constant photoshoot requests, as the sole “diversity card” the department has to play in a far-from-inclusive workplace. Milking your likeness, but only if it’s for 61 cents on the dollar.

And while textbook microaggressions become corporate culture, nothing can quite prepare you for life as a Black American. 

Try as they might, parents sit you down and have "the talk," advising how to avoid as well as de-escalate the inevitable. But it is just that — the inevitable. For society, you will always be too much and simultaneously not enough. Too loud. Too bold. Too colorful. Too ambitious. Not smart enough. Not qualified. Not ‘what they’re looking for.’

It always cuts a little. Always stings.

Society's reminder that you are different. Other. That you were never intended to survive, much less succeed.