The Black Out: When my skin was called out and kept out

Head Start Graduation
Ready for Kindergarten

The first time my blackness was called out, I was a 5-year-old kid in kindergarten.  I was sitting at a round table in our classroom, and one of my white female friends was announcing out loud who was invited to her birthday party.  I don’t exactly remember how the scenario went down.  I just remember being skipped.  When she didn’t say anything to me, I remember asking if I could come to the party, too.  Her naïve and innocent voice said something like, “You can’t come because my dad said no Black people are allowed in our house.”

My recollection of what happened after that is hazy. I don’t remember how her comments made me feel. At the time, though, I didn’t understand why someone would say, “no black people are allowed,” but I knew something wasn’t right. 

Later I remember riding in the car with my family one evening.  It was dark.  My parents were in the front seat, and my older sister, younger brother, and I were in the back.  My dad was driving.  I called to my mom in the front seat.  I told her the story about how my friend said I could not go to her birthday party because I was Black.  I remember my mom turning to look at my dad.  I’m sure she was shocked.  I don’t believe she or he knew what to say.  Her reply was, “Ronda, you shouldn’t invite yourself to other people’s parties.”  And that was that.

First Grade
(I didn't like my second grade pic)

The second time my blackness was called out, I was a young, 7-year-old second grader.  My Brownie Troop (Girl Scouts) was doing some kind of project at a shopping center.  I walked up on a group of my friends—all white—who were talking but quickly hushed once I arrived.  Of course my inquiring mind wanted to know what they were talking about, and so I asked.  My friend said, “Ronda, don’t be mad. I’m having a birthday party today but you can’t come because my dad said no Black people are allowed.”  I don’t remember what happened next.  I don’t remember if the other white girls heard her say this to me.  I was the only Black Brownie (how ironic) in our troop.  I imagine I played it off like I was fine.  I mean hey, I’d experienced this before.

This time, though, it was different.  I felt like I was different and in a bad way. It hurt.  I was hurt. I remember coming home after the event and moping around on the couch, probably fighting back tears.  My mom saw me and asked what was wrong.  I lied and told her, “Nothing.” She pushed me further. In hindsight, I guess I really wanted her to know but didn’t know how to tell her. This explains why I was in the living room being sad, instead of my bedroom. I told my mom what had happened.  And I made it clear that I wasn’t trying to invite myself to the birthday party.

She told my dad, and he left the house. This time, my mom talked to me about Abraham Lincoln freeing the slaves and that some folks hate Black people for no reason. I felt an overwhelming interest in understanding what slavery was. From that day forward race had always been visible to me. It’s like something awakened in me that made me view the world through a different lens. I remember being at different events in different spaces and always coming home to tell my mom that I was the only Black person there or there were only two Black people at the event.

As an adult looking back, I now understand that these two defining events awakened and called out my ancestral spirits.  Ever since then, I've had this profound curiosity and connection to my history.  In 8^th grade I did a research paper titled, “African American History: Our Journey to the Promised Land” (we never made it). In college I double majored in African American (AFAM) Studies and was forever changed again.  The knowledge that I gained, the love, the appreciation, the understanding, the anger, the hatred, and the love made me who I am today.  My AFAM major allowed me to be reflective about the racist events that happened to me as a child, while also processing the current and ongoing racism in my life. 

Because of my ancestry and because of my experiences, it is my duty to educate against racism.  Every time I hear a teacher, a professor, a stranger, a friend, or a foe make a racist or micro-aggressive comment, I feel an overwhelming emotion in my body, compelling me to speak up, to challenge the comment, to push back.  It’s like the spirits of my ancestors, who were called out at 7, are begging me to say something.  My heart starts beating fast, my breaths shorten, and my stomach feels like butterflies are fluttering all over.  And it won’t stop until I say something.  In some cases, I’m reminded of the 5-year-old Ronda, who didn’t have a voice.  It’s like she, too, is beckoning the adult Ronda to speak-up on her behalf because she couldn’t.  The burden is heavy.  The weight is sometimes unbearable, but I take it in stride. I understand the battle is not mine; it is the Lord’s.

I seek Godly wisdom to know when I should speak and when I should pass.  Sometimes I pass when I’m supposed to engage because engaging is exhaustive.  I pray often and do the best I can.  Nothing but the Holy Spirit has kept me from flipping out (well, I did make a video once).  I don’t always get it right, but I’m trying.  I don’t always speak when I’m being called, but I’m trying, and the spirits are counting on me.  As Maya Angelou once said, “I come as one, but I stand as 10,000.”

Grad School

At 33, I’ve noticed that retelling the stories of what happened to me in kindergarten and second grade are much more difficult for me than they were before.  My emotions are raw, and the recollections bring tears to my eyes; however, advocating for anti-racist education brings me peace and healing.  And that’s what I choose to focus on. I think 5 year-old Ronda would be proud.

#disruptivepeace #peacemaker #antiracisteducator #inpurpose #onpurpose