The first time I realized I was black, I was sitting with my friends and coloring in my self-portrait with a sand-colored marker. I thought nothing of it. Everyone else was doing the same. However, the boy sitting next to me said, "You can't use that marker. That's my skin color, not yours," and handed me the black one. His statement took me by surprise. I took a look around the room and for the first time in my life, my skin color made me feel insecure.
The second time I realized I was black, my class did a project on significant historical figures. I was filled with excitement to choose my figure, but my teacher instructed me that I had to be Harriet Tubman because she would be the easiest for me to reenact. However, for the first time, I spoke up. I told my teacher, "I don't want to be her, I chose someone else.” I watched her ignore me and move on to the next kid.
My mother always reminded me "You need to study hard in school," "Always make yourself presentable," "Make sure to use your manners and be professional." I would brush this off as my mom just being my mom, but as I grew older I came to understand that there was a reason for her telling me these things. I found myself competing with my peers for the same recognition, almost as if they didn't believe I could do just as well.
It wasn't until my family began searching for a new home that I saw racism personally attack the people closest to me. My mom told me about how we couldn't live in some neighborhoods because we didn't fit in. I later came to realize that what she really meant was most neighborhoods felt unsafe with a black family in their community.
Not only did my mother always try to make us aware that not everyone was accepting of our color, but she also gave us “the rules.” No wearing hoods at night. Do not cover your face when you're in public. Be compliant with police officers. If you get pulled over, keep your hands visible. I had no idea why she was so strict about these things. A few months later, news broke out that a boy close in age to my brother was shot and killed by a police officer. His name was Trayvon Martin.
When I was told about the death of George Floyd I reacted with frustration. Whether his murder was racially motivated or not, his death could have been avoided. There have been hundreds of innocently murdered black men and women and, as sad as it is to say, I'm afraid that I, my family members, or colored friends could be next. Black Lives Matter and my life matters.
So, yes, when they told my eight-year-old self that I was different, they were right. But not in the way they made me out to be. I have taken what has put me at a disadvantage to others and made myself ambitious, confident, and most importantly, driven for success. I will no longer be seen as a shy little girl who’s uncomfortable in her skin, because as a young black woman, born and raised in New Hampshire, I've found myself fighting harder for the recognition that I deserve.