Is this because I m black

If you are like me, you have had the feeling of not feeling safe when heading out, or being paid less than Whites for the same job, or getting passed over for promotions, or just outright being discriminated against due to the color of your skin. And by “like me,” I mean Black. By now, we all know what happened to George Floyd. His tragic death has led me to take a closer look at my own life and how racism has shaped who I am today personally and professionally. The following is my story, but it is also the story of so many. “Why Are Your Feet So Dirty?” Children learn about racial differences and racial bias from an early age. And they learn from teachers and parents how to deal with and react to these differences. I, however, did not know what racism was until I got older. You see, my parents never spoke to me about it as a child. I guess that’s why I always felt uncomfortable about my first experience when I was made aware how my race made me different. More than 40 years later, I still am. It occurred when I was about 10 years old. I was visiting with my best friends, sisters Heather and Amber, both white, for our regular playdate. We had spent the day at the beach and had returned to their home. I always enjoyed going to their home because they had cable. After a late lunch, we took turns showering. It was now my turn, and I realized I did not have lotion for after the shower. No big deal, I can always add it later, I thought. Afterward, as we all gathered around to watch another Molly Ringwald movie with our popcorn, my friends’ mother asked me, “Why are your feet so dirty?” I had what many African-Americans refer to as ashy skin, which is simply dry skin that is more apparent and visible on some people of color. It can make the skin look dull, gray, or chalky, with an ash-like coating. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t know why at the time. I explained that my feet were simply ashy, and that I had left my lotion at home. She simply replied, “Oh.” But the look on her face told me she didn’t quite understand. I then sat Indian style so that my feet would not show. And I can assure you from that point on, I never forgot my lotion. “He Does Not Like Black People” My next encounter occurred when I was in sixth grade. Heather now had a new set of “cool friends.” “Wendy, you cannot come along,” Amber explained once. “My friend Kathy’s dad does not like Black people.” Her statement hit me like a brick. I had no clue how to digest it. I started to think that if Heather and Amber could hang out with people who did not like Black people, did they really like me? Our friendship suffered, and I began to retreat. By middle school, I began to play with the Black kids in the neighborhood. We hung out, sat together in the lunchroom, and did things that girls do after school. As the school year was winding down, there was talk that on the last day of school a few older kids would be fighting at the bus stop. My new best friend, Nancy, had an older sister whose boyfriend, Darren, decided to meet us at the bus stop to watch out for us in case anything happened. Sure enough, on that last day, Darren came to pick us up. The police were also there (I’m not sure if someone had called them or whether it was a happenstance). One officer said to Darren, “What are you doing here?” “Picking up my little sister and her friends,“ The officer then asked him another question that I couldn’t hear, but I remember Darren’s reply was clear as day: “Man, why in the hell y’all always f—-ing with me?” Complete mayhem ensued. The officers swarmed and began hitting us with their batons. They pulled their guns on us and slammed Darren on the ground to handcuff him. The crowd, mostly middle-schoolers, began screaming and running. I watched an officer slam my friend, 12 or 13 at the time, to the ground and pound on her (she probably weighed 80lbs wet). I ran away as fast as I could. There were about 30 mostly middle-schoolers arrested and beaten that day. It was my first encounter with law enforcement.