YOU? A Black Feminist Professor?!
I caught up with some old friends from high school recently, and they were straight-up appalled by my profession. I’m an interdisciplinary professor, which means I teach Gender & Women’s Studies, Black Studies, and Queer Studies to college freshmen. If you knew me before college, you’d be shocked too. Kara, the loud-mouthed airhead who constantly sounded off about how BLM was overrated, feminism was brainwashing, and said some things too homophobic to repeat--that girl is in charge of a classroom? She’s teaching?!
Yes, and I’m really good at it.
My own history reminds me never to judge anyone for what they don’t know because clearly, everyone has room to grow. I was inspired to write this essay because I believe transparency is one of my best qualities. The truth is, I wasn’t always well-read or researched, and I used to talk out of my ass. Often. It turns out that getting to the bottom of my internalized bigotry revealed that most ideas are interconnected. For me, it started with understanding race.
I grew up in a Black neighborhood and attended Black schools all my life, but a predominantly white institution (PWI) is where I embraced my Blackness.
My suburban, college-educated, 2-parent upbringing is not special nor does it relevantly set me apart, but I used to believe so. After all, we never dealt with poverty, crime, underfunded schools, or other societal ills intrinsically linked to Blackness. Those monolithic, classist attitudes heavily influenced my social interactions. In my youth, I consumed and internalized the negative sociopolitical messages about Black people--even though I was Black. How is that so?
Mainly, it was a choice. I chose not to affiliate myself with anything I deemed “too Black,” whether this included rap music, certain dance trends, specific beauty expressions, or vernaculars. This is due, in part, to my parents’ unintentional “us versus them” commentary. My parents are both #BlackandProud but they hold some classist attitudes that rubbed off on me. Admonishments about grammatically correct speech, disparaging comments about weaves, lashes, and sagging, and consistently referring to our counterparts as ignorant or lazy inevitably had an effect on my perception of race. Even if it wasn’t their intention, I received a clear message about who we were to present, despite what others did and said.
I recently asked my parents about where they stood on such issues and they remained steadfast in their answer but admitted that they could have given more positive messaging. My mother almost exclusively supported Black businesses and exclusively consumed Black media. She only read Ebony and JET magazines, only ever listened to slow jams and R&B, and kept the TV on BET. She never bought me white dolls. I might have taken notice if I had the incentive to do so.
I was sheltered from any media that would turn me into a “fast” girl or give me any serious ideas about the world. It was easy enough, since I had no interest in any of that. However, even in the seemingly harmless children’s television were subliminal messages about beauty, success, and behavior. I knew that we were Black, but we were the “good” kind. We were the Cosbys, Banks, and Winslows--articulate, dignified, educated, and above all respectable. Yuck!
Black exceptionalism was always ingrained into me; its consequence was a full endorsement of respectability politics. For years I found myself in a hole, carved out of assimilationist ideas that alienated me from my culture. All throughout elementary school, I could never understand why people told me I talked and acted white; we were all tuned in at 8/7 Central to watch the new Hannah Montana episodes. However, my friends were also watching 106&Park, Black UPN shows (Sister, Sister, Girlfriends, The Parkers, etc.), and Black 90’s reruns on Nick at Nite. They were becoming well-rounded in ways I shut myself out of. I preferred to stay in my Disney and Nickelodeon bubble until middle school. Mainstream shows like That’s So Raven and The Wizards of Waverly Place as well as Victorious and iCarly were more my speed.
When I decided I was too cool for kids' television, I promptly turned my attention to pop culture (read: bubblegum mainstream pop of the 2010s). I got really into Demi Lovato, Fifth Harmony, and One Direction and consequently further from any association with R&B, rap, or other forms of Black media. In high school, I had the whole tortured, misunderstood, angsty teenager thing going on, and that aligned much more with emo band culture on Tumblr and Stan Twitter (yeah … I had an All Time Low phase). At no point did I view myself as a political person, let alone a Black Lesbian Feminist. I was just a girl obsessing over bands, longing for understanding, and yearning endlessly for my first relationship. She never saw the need to get so riled up over bigotry because, like, hello it’s the 21st century. Racism was a thing of the past, feminism was for crazy women, and I was a virgin who didn’t know anything about sexual politics. My privileged, sheltered life steered me away from the hardships that lead to a strong political stance. I didn’t adopt any of that until my senior year of high school.
When I say going to a PWI forced me to understand and embrace my Blackness, I mean I didn’t feel and recognize that I was Black until attending Kennesaw State University. Before, my Blackness was just a technicality--not a lived experience. I grew up modeling myself after Vanessa Hudgens, Raven Symone, and Demi Lovato, all in the cookie-cutter image of social whiteness. But in college, I was an English major who was often the only person of color in the classroom (let alone someone Black!). I had othered myself from Black culture so much that I felt more comfortable amongst white peers than I did at my Black homeschools. I wasn’t yet aware that I also had no place there. That traditional English curriculum wasn’t created for someone like me. I was so tired of Brit Lit and postcolonialism. Endless white names and white faces, all too white, too straight, too patriarchal. I was routinely singled out for my racial perspectives in class, even by well-meaning professors. And y’all, I ate it up. I loved giving my Black perspective on the white canon and ripping those old dead white guys to shreds, blissfully ignorant of my willful participation in tokenism. I cringe at those moments now, but I also understand more about myself and the world.
The first time my personal history was validated was when I took a class called “The Black Woman.” To be honest, I took this class for an easy A. Why take a class called “The Black Woman” when I am a Black woman? At the time, it had nothing to do with representation or personal investment; I just wanted something simple in my final semester. What I got from that class has changed my life forever because it focused on how Black Feminist writers unveiled the sociopolitical nuances within cultural identities. I even remember verbally expressing discomfort with the label “Black Feminist,” feeling that it was too exclusive and targeted. But this class split my feeble “politics” and recycled, impersonal beliefs wide open. It sought answers to questions regarding what it means to be Black, a woman, or a lesbian. And what does it mean to be some combination of all three? How do their lives fundamentally differ from the white supremacist, heteronormative patriarchy? I was exposed to a new lens of history I had never seen before. I was enraptured by the historical, autoethnographic, and shared experiences of the texts. Through the works of bell hooks, Brittney Cooper, the Combahee River Collective, and more Black Feminist writers, I discovered the multifaceted truth to my story. I finally found a missing puzzle piece. Finally, I felt seen. I had crammed my entire life and worldview into something that was never meant for me.
My discordant relationship with my Blackness illuminated core issues in every other facet of my life.
Since graduating with my Master of Arts in American Studies, I now have the language to express my life up until this point. I now understand concepts like internalized racism, assimilationist theory, and white social framing. The more literature I read on these topics inspires a deeper understanding of myself. Once I started unveiling the roots of my disconnection, I discovered internalized homophobia and misogyny as well. I have a lot to remedy for my past behaviors and ideologies, but I also know to give myself grace. I give my parents grace as well. We are only trying to make the best of an imbalanced situation. I’m just grateful that I saw the light before it was too late.
