Who Gets to Define You?
Black. American.
BLACK. AMERICAN.
In America, I was defined by race.
In Belize, I was defined by nationality.
But for the first time?
I didn’t have to feel like I had something to prove. I could just be who I was and try not to be a dick.
No forced performances.
No quiet calculations on how much Blackness was enough.
No worrying if I was playing a part or playing it wrong.
Just existing.
And that?
That was new.
NOT THE ONLY BLACK KID IN THE ROOM
For the first time, I wasn’t Black. I was American.
And that’s WAAAAY fucking worse.
We are the worst. Objectively.
Stepping outside the U.S., I realized America had sold me a version of myself—
and I bought it. No questions asked.
Because from my perspective? There wasn’t anything better for cheaper.
(And you know I love a deal!)
But yeah, it was crazy, because for the first time, I felt more accepted among Black Americans abroad than I ever did in the States.
That says everything.
A BLACK CARD REALITY CHECK
For years, I thought my identity was a fixed point.
That being Black had rules, limitations, requirements.
That I had to earn it, prove it, deserve it.
Then I left.
And suddenly?
None of that mattered.
For the first time, I wasn’t trying to prove I belonged. I was just trying to prove I wasn’t an American asshole. (I’m an asshole who happens to be American—get it right!)
Because identity isn’t about acceptance.
It’s about who gets to define you in the first place.
And for the first time?
That wasn’t America.
BLACK PRIVILEGE VS. STRUGGLE
Privilege didn’t mean protection.
It just meant I had access. (Should I choose to accept it—clearly, I did not.)
And not for lack of trying or opportunity.
I just don’t want people to think I didn’t work for something (that’s the Black)
but I also suck at accepting recognition for said work.
Ouch. That’s the ADHD.
And I definitely don’t know how to accept opportunities without wondering if I’m about to disappoint someone else.
It’s one thing if I try something and disappoint myself.
It’s quite another if I disappoint…not me. (But that can be unpacked another day.)
However, access didn’t stop me from—
Getting followed like I’m shady. (Ok fair, but I mean, like these assholes just assumed, not like they knew me!)
Teachers writing it off when I underperformed because it was expected and I was probably only there because my mom was a teacher.
Teachers writing me off when I overperformed because they saw I was "keeping up" and I should be grateful for even being there.
Being the token for all things race-related then having to pretend I understood from personal experience—when, at the time, the only racism I actually felt was being placed in those situations to begin with.
Ignoring those situations to avoid having to reconcile my feelings of imposter syndrome other than excusing it as—"Well, that’s just how you grew up."
By the way, in case you were wondering—throwing ADHD into the mix?
Helps nothing and no one.
I’m a walking diversion.
Imagine feeling like a DEI hire in your own race. Smh.
I wasn’t in the country last time. And maybe that was for the best.
Because this time?
I’m here. And I’m paying attention.
THE SLOW-BURNING RAGE.
I was living in Belize when a pack of small-dicked, incel Nazis made a live-action remake of White Men Can’t Jump—but instead of basketball, it was basic fucking human decency.
And they marched onto my alma mater’s grounds.
They desecrated the school I worked my ass off to get into.
(Thanks, Affirmative Action!)
They invaded the spaces where my friends and I lived.
Where we worked.
Where we played.
Where we did ratchet hoodrat shit with virtually no evidence.
And for what?
A torch-lit tantrum, starring America’s Most Fragile, featuring the smash hit ‘You Will Not Replace Us,’ written and produced by white mediocrity.
Funny how whiteness only sees a system as broken
when it starts working against them.
YOUR PRIVILEGE IS SHOWING
Even in this shitshow?
I know my people are good.
Not because we’re safe.
Not because we’re protected.
It’s because we’ve never had the luxury of being unprepared.
And that’s one thing you learn early being Black in America—whether you think you’re living the "Black experience" or not.
You don’t have the privilege of shock.
Hope for the best (can never give up hope), buuuut assume it’s stacked against you. That way if it doesn’t happen, you can tell yourself you were lucky to be in the running anyways because people like us don’t usually get those things anyways. A pat on the head and be happy you even got that far.
White privilege?
It’s the ability—and the audacity—
to approach a situation thinking the opposite.
We don’t get to be surprised.
We don’t get to be disillusioned.
We don’t get to say, "This isn’t who we are."
Because we know exactly who America is.
We’ve always known.
They’ve always had a plan for us—just not for us.
BLACK-OWNED
So how do I call myself Black-owned when I spent so much time feeling like I wasn’t Black enough?
How do I claim something I spent years thinking belonged to somebody else?
Is this a bandwagon moment?
Am I looking for permission to claim it?
Since when do I look for permission to do anything?
ACCEPTANCE VS. AUTHENTICITY
I spent years trying to prove something.
To myself.
To others.
To people who probably weren’t even watching.
And for what?
To earn something that was never up for debate?
Maybe it’s not about being accepted.
Maybe it’s about accepting myself.
Insert cheesy 80’s sitcom outro here.
I can safely say this isn’t a phase.
This isn’t some new discovery.
This isn’t learning something new.
This is unlearning a lifetime of bullshit.
Next up: Time to reactivate my Black Card.
