Sunday, January 21, 2018

#1: Racial Autobiography


Growing up as an African-American male in an overwhelmingly white community, I have always been
aware of my racial identity. I was the only person of color in many social settings and attending  this 
university is no different than how my childhood was. My parents told me they decided to raise me 
around white people because of the better overall living styles. There were better schools, grocery stores, 
banks and safer neighborhoods around whites. I look at pictures of myself in class pictures, and I am the 
only black kid in the picture.


My father grew up in a single-parent household in a mostly African-American neighborhood in Eastern 
Washington DC. He’s told me stories about the struggles he had growing up. How he remembers being 
evicted from his house and standing on the sidewalk, with all his belongings, during a snowstorm. He 
recalls the first experiences he had while looking for a places to live  here in North Carolina, how he 
confronted his coworkers about him not being paid equally and treated fairly.


My parents have always talked to me about the importance of representing our people in a positive way. 
They have routinely talked to me about racial profiling from law enforcement and other people who aren’t 
used to interacting with people of color. I’ve been profiled in front of my own parents at Best Buy. I’ve seen 
my father racially profiled with my very own eyes as he was accused of trying to steal a leather jacket from 
Walmart. “Watch the way you dress because people make judgements off your appearance” is something my 
mother always tells me before I go hang out with friends.


One year around Christmas time, me and my two brothers drove to a shopping mall in Rock Hill, South 
Carolina. I remember the mall parking lot being completely packed as we looked for a parking space. 
When we finally got of out of the car, the security guard pulled up and told us he called the police because 
there were reports of us looking for cars to break into. Sure enough, not even five minutes later, several
police vehicles pulled up and 6-7 officers started interrogating us. “What are you doing here?” 
“Where’s your ID?””How many times have you been arrested before?””Do you own this vehicle?” 
The police left us alone without filing any charges against us that day.

The way African-Americans are portrayed in the media is disgusting to me. When one of my brothers got 
into a traffic incident, he told me the lady locked herself in the car when he was trying to exchange insurance 
numbers. It makes me feel that there is always a camera watching me even before I leave the house. I feel
guilty for just being in existence sometimes.


To me, being “racially aware” is knowing the history of your people. Understanding the struggle of those that 
came before you and the sacrifices they made so you can reach farther in life. My grandmother tells me that 
she wishes she could’ve gone to college, that she wishes there was no such thing as segregation where she 
grew up. All these stories and lessons I’ve heard from my older people in my family have made me more 
aware in the shaping of my identity and how my identity is projected to other people.

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