By Jayce Tyler
I was at a week-long Girl Scout sleepaway camp the first time I remember experiencing racism. It was right after the counselors had called for “lights out” in the bunk. There was some problem in the cabin and, to get my attention, one of the other campers called out to me—“Hey, Black girl.” She knew my real name. She’d known for days. Yet, she chose to address me as “Black girl” instead. I don’t remember what she said after that, I just froze while a friend of mine corrected her.
Little did I know then, but this would be my first encounter in a lifetime of racism.
I would later have a white romantic partner lie to professionals, stating in an email that I was “aggressive,” and who wouldn’t understand why that language made me so angry.
I would work underneath a white professional who took every opportunity to speak over Black voices. That same professional would go on to serve as a liaison to an organization criticized for its lack of diversity and understanding of white privilege; yet, she’ll change her social media profile picture to “Black Lives Matter,” thinking I’ll truly believe she thinks my life matters.
I would speak up for myself, only to be labeled the “angry Black woman.” I would go on to hold my tongue in both personal and professional matters just to avoid becoming a stereotype.
At my small-town Texas school, a history professor of mine would use the last few seconds in class to share his belief that Sandra Bland killed herself.
I would join a Black student organization that held a town hall on police brutality in that same small, predominantly white town. Most students chose other interests over our lives.
In 2016, I would read Simeon’s Story: An Eyewitness Account Of The Kidnapping Of Emmett Till six years after the book had been published, three years after hearing about Kendrick Johnson, and one year after learning Sandra Bland’s name—my reaction, visceral.
I would have “peaceful” interactions with the police but refuse to praise any of them for not killing me or to absolve them of the guilt and shame they should feel for choosing to wear that uniform.
Fast forward to 2020. The world is now in the middle of a pandemic and Black people are having to fight for their lives in more ways than one.
My social media feed is currently bombarded with people saying that my life matters. Yet, some of those same people refuse to be held accountable for their own racist actions, whether explicit or implicit.
It’s hard to find the words to explain how, at age 23, I’m already filled with so much anger and pain. But then again, I’m expected to watch Black people be murdered and reduced to hashtags—all while giving non-Black folks a grace period to catch up in their understanding. Yes, the Black Lives Matter movement has momentum. Yes, maybe things will change for the better. But when it took so many Black names and Black bodies to get us here, I’m having a hard time finding anything worth celebrating.
