Black Card

My whole life, up until eighth grade, I went to private school. My parents are from the Caribbean and they were deathly afraid of public school. They heard that in the gangs reside in public schools and children have sex in the stairwells. They heard that in these “schools” American children go unsupervised and get away with cursing out adults. They leave with sexually transmitted diseases, pregnant or with “no home training.” In an effort to save my soul they sent me to a Catholic school, Lutheran school, Christian school- whatever private school they could find and afford.

I didn’t think anything of it, but I found it odd that I passed so many schools in order to get to mine. I wished that I went to the school down the block so I did not have to wake up early. But, I got used to ironing my uniform shirt for the next day, being in the car for a half-hour or more and being the only one or one of two or one of three black people in my class. This ostracized me a little. I couldn’t play certain games because the white kids said I was too dark but I also didn’t make very good friends with the very few Black people. I became a weird sort of middle, trying to be social and embracing loner life. 

Until eighth grade.

The company mother worked for shut down and since she was the breadwinner- they could not afford a lot of things, including my schooling. We went through so many steps before I was sent to public school; I was homeschooled in sixth grade, I applied for so many scholarships to go to any schools that would take me which helped me get into my last private school in seventh grade. When that scholarship ended and my mother did not have the money to continue to send me to this school the inevitable happened; in eighth grade I had to start public school. My mother told me repulsive stories of public school so I was terrified. But I was also determined to find my niche.

When I got to class the first thing I noticed was all the brown people and the array of hues that I had never experienced in a classroom setting. From light brown like sand and some like granola to dark brown like coffee with one or two creamers. I was immediately excited because I fell somewhere in between like gingerbread and I just knew I would fit in.

Then I noticed they all had really cool clothes on.

The good feelings immediately diminished. 

My whole life having cool clothes was only something you had to worry about around three times a year when we had dress down days. Nonetheless, I did my best to fit in.

When the teacher asked my name, I put my most polite voice, which made it squeakier than usual, “Breana K. Ricketts”

When people asked me questions I’d respond in complete sentences.

I made sure I was polite, no matter who I was talking to.

I had no slang in my vocabulary. 

Then, Anthony Jenkins proudly said it. “Why you talk like that? You talk white. You not really Black; I’m taking your Black Card away.”

I giggled and looked around uncomfortably as if some man dressed in all black was going to come and steal a Black Card I didn’t even know I had. For the rest of that day, my thoughts were in a whirlwind.

But, I am Black.

I looked down at my skin- I’m clearly Black. You can take it away? Does this make me better? Does this make me whiter? Who was Anthony to take it away from me? Is it because he is “so clearly Black”?

And most of all: How could I make sure it will never be taken away from me again?

The idea that there is one type of Black, and I did not fit it. I realized that even the Carribean kids would get higher cool points unless you were from Haiti. African kids would lie about where they came from, and they mostly got away with it too. The only time we’d find out that they may have had some African heritage was when we would hear their last name or on the first day of school when the teacher who does not know what the student likes to be called yet says their whole name. 

I often wonder about the people who feel the need to overlook my Blackness in order to get to know me. They get surprised when I bring up Black issues or feel strongly about Black issues. It is as if they are confused as to why I care so much; they take away my Black card without informing me. They replace it with “you’re not Black, you’re Caribbean” or “Yeah you’re Black but I’m sure you are mixed with other things.” I look down at my skin again and question what everyone else sees.