Over the years I have touched on life as it is in the color of my skin. Only cursory at best. I have never delved deeply into what this experience is and has been for me. Never felt I had the words or the courage to accurately express what this feels like. One thing is certain, from as young as I can remember, I have been fully aware that my blackness was something more than just my skin color, it came with weight and a need to have awareness and a responsibility. I was born in 1970, a year that from what I have been told by my parents, saw for my little island, the Black Power uprising. A movement of resistance that as my father put it, “allowed black people to work at banks thereafter”. I was told of my father’s choice to wear his hair as an Afro, nearly having him arrested during that time. I was told of curfews. I understood later why my father let my hair grow into an Afro and donned me in dashikis often as a young boy. I remember oftentimes watching TV and my mother would exclaim, ever so proudly, “ look, a darkie!” And learned through experience that seeing us on TV was not a common thing at all. Our British education taught us some aspects of slavery and the black experience, but most of my education came from home and from gradually understanding the lessons on our true history my culture was teaching me. Still terribly insulated, as growing up in Trinidad, race and my skin color were not so central in my daily life. After all most if not all, looked like me, so there was no feeling of otherness, at least not based on the color of my skin. For the most part we were naively shielded from the ugliness of racism. And thankfully so. 

I have been visiting America since I was 7 years old. Spending a few of my summer vacations here with my grandmother and aunts and uncle. So one would think that I may have been prepared for what I can only describe kindly as a culture shock, experienced when I came here to live in 1990. I remember the feeling vividly to this day. It was my first job in this country and I had taken the subway to 34th street and sixth Avenue in Manhattan. As I came up the subway stairs and emerged onto sixth avenue, it hit me rudely and somewhat scarily. All I saw in front of me, behind me, at the side of me, were white people. I had never before seen so many white people all at once. It blew my mind and shook me quickly into an uncomfortable realization that I was in a vastly different place. And so the adjusting began. The rapid learning of cultural differences and norms. There were many lessons, way too many to list. But my experiences, quickly knocked the island naivety out of me. I became even more keenly aware of the color of my skin, and the impact it had on my daily interactions and experiences. Nothing I did, I did without this awareness. Everywhere I went, I went with this awareness. Every interaction I had, I had with this awareness. I read somewhere, that we should be aware of our blackness but not let it define us. An idea I have always had a struggle with. As for me my blackness is as defining as I am human. The two experiences cannot be separated. And living in a world where you are constantly reminded makes you ask the question, is it the world that’s reminding me or is it that I am a bit too keenly aware? It’s a struggle to say the least. One that has impacted many of my decisions. From where I choose to live, to who my friends are, what activities I choose to participate in, to where I choose to vacation. It travels with me everywhere, in every experience. I can’t speak for how other black people walk through this life, but for me I can’t erase it. I manage it.

I marvel at how some of us appear to navigate through life seemingly unfazed, and I often wonder if it’s just an appearance and they too battle with these demons. Or if a consequence of knowing comes with the burden of carrying. 

All this was stoked by my recent vacation. No bad experiences, but having to combat the very visceral feelings I get when seeing the throngs of white people also vacationing with me. Not that they shouldn’t, don’t get me wrong. But that deeply uncomfortable feeling of otherness I feel that unfortunately robs me of a full vacation experience. I look out and like I did back in 1990, all I see are people that do not look like me. And yes this is the world, I am aware. But the disproportionate majority is always jarring. The feeling of standing out is and has always been a thing for me. The feelings, true or imagined of being constantly looked at, consumes me. I’m sure most of it is me projecting onto to others, who probably were completely unaware of my presence, or unbothered by it. But for me, I feel like the “darkie”in the room that all eyes are on. It’s troubling, and sad to exist like that. But if you know you know. 

It’s the double edged sword of knowing and having experienced the ugliness of racism. And then finding the courage to put on that face and demand for myself the enjoyment and experiences I deserve. To attempt to table the acute and constant protectionism of the self. And not see every interaction as being influenced by the color of my skin in some way.  To recognize that some people do actually just speak to me on the basis that I am human, and devoid of what I look like. The dual personality that must exist at least in my head is a trauma I carry around. Not an imposter syndrome, because I know who I am, clearly. And love this skin I’m in. But a need to feel truly comfortable in my skin wherever I am is this seemingly unattainable ideal. 

The innocence of not knowing I see in my daughter. Her focus was the pool today, and that was it. My focus was to for us to sit somewhere I felt comfortable and little less of the otherness. All the while wondering how do I teach her to navigate this aspect of her life, or even if I should. Our true history she must know, but my hope is that her application of what she knows is not nearly as crippling as I feel mine to be. 

RJ.