Overcoming Internalized Racism & Celebrating Yourself
Image: Collection of Olaiya Land
Hello! I hope you’re well and having a joyful Juneteenth!
I am taking the day today to celebrate simply being Black. Which is something I was never taught to celebrate. As a biracial kid growing up in a white family in a rural midwestern town in the 80s, having brown skin was a constant cause of confusion and sadness. My mom is blond with pale white skin. I was forever longing for her straight, waist-length hair and blue eyes.
There were zero kids of color at my school. Think about that for a minute. No Asian kids. No Latinx kids. No Black kids. Just me.
With my curls that my mom didn’t know how to tame. And my “weird” Nigerian name. And my brown skin.
As I got older, fitting in became my raison d’etre. I built a wall of perfect grades. I worked after school jobs so I’d have the money to buy the “right” clothes. I got up at six every morning to straighten my curls then set them into fat round curls (the “right” kind of curls) on hot rollers like all my white girlfriends did. Speaking of those girlfriends, they were all considered beautiful. They were almost all nominated for homecoming or prom queen. I’m not trying hard enough, I told myself. I developed an eating disorder to try to force my curvy body into the thin, thin ideal of the era.
When I think about that now, it makes me so sad.
For decades, I did not feel proud to be Black. I did not even consider myself Black. I saw myself as belonging to a murky no-mans-land of racial ambiguity. But slowly (very slowly) I started to feel that my cocoa skin was beautiful, my curves divine, my curls a blessing.
Image: Olaiya Land
I moved to Europe and had Black girlfriends for the first time in my life. At home, I’d never felt “Black” enough to fit in. Apparently I sounded too white. Because I took honors classes, I was considered stuck up. I stopped trying. But in Brussels and Paris I met women who thought nothing of the way I talked or carried myself. That friendship was a gift.
I also started to see more people who looked like me on the television, in magazines, in movies. Oprah built her empire. Obama became president. (The fact that he had a white mom, an African dad and had spent part of his childhood in Kansas meant a lot to me.) When I went to see Hamilton, the fact that a cast of POC could portray the sacrosanct Founding Fathers was a watershed moment for me. It sounds a little corny now, but it hit me in a very real way.
If anyone tries to tell you that representation is not important, they are wrong. Seeing people who look like you as you grow up and develop is crucial for building self-esteem and a sense that you belong in the world. I’m still mourning the fact that I didn’t have that.
Today I not only consider myself Black, I am proud to be Black. I am part of a rich heritage that has brought innovation and strength and joyfulness to the world. I have (mostly) stopped worrying about whether I sound or look “Black” enough. Or that I will be judged because I’m married to a white man. I am committed to being my authentic self, to giving myself permission to be part of the culture and to fighting for justice for Black people everywhere.
Which is why I’m celebrating Juneteenth today. I’m celebrating the emancipation of Black slaves, the history of Black people in this country, and the enduring tradition of strong, proud Black folks fighting for equality. I’m also celebrating myself and the fact I’m at a place where I can write that I’m proud to be Black. It’s been a long road. But I am so grateful to have arrived.
