It is a sad day when you realize, despite everything we’ve gone through in the past six years (and counting) (and also not mentioning the past 400 years), most people still don’t understand the culture of American racism. Explicit hatred? They seem to grasp it. Microaggressions, however, seem to be where they start to misunderstand. Let’s set a scene:
You’re a 13-year old black kid living in New York. You go to school on the first day of Black History Month, February 1st. The first half of the day passes slowly; you show off your black pride shirt, open an email to see the prompts for the upcoming “BHM Spirit Week,” and doze a bit throughout your classes—you know, like usual. Lunch finally comes, and your stomach is rumbling for some good ol’ school lunch. When you make it down to the lunch room, it smells… kinda good? Then you see it. Chicken and waffles. Your lunch lady hands you a tray before asking if you want watermelon.
It’s February 1st. Watermelon is not in season.
You’re a 13-year old black kid living in New York. You go to school on the first day of Black History Month, February 1st. The first half of the day passes slowly; you show off your black pride shirt, open an email to see the prompts for the upcoming “BHM Spirit Week,” and doze a bit throughout your classes—you know, like usual. Lunch finally comes, and your stomach is rumbling for some good ol’ school lunch. When you make it down to the lunch room, it smells… kinda good? Then you see it. Chicken and waffles. Your lunch lady hands you a tray before asking if you want watermelon.
It’s February 1st. Watermelon is not in season.
If you remember hearing this story somewhere, that’s because it made headlines in the year of our lord 2024. Twenty. Twenty. Four. How... archaic. I first saw this story on Instagram, immediately going to the comments to see if everyone else thought the same thing as I did at that moment: I can't stand white people. However, the top comment was two cents from a black British woman, diminishing black Americans for being “sensitive” and urging us to be thankful that they were “appreciating” our culture. Right.
Well, what she may not know is that after the abolition of American chattel slavery, black people began growing watermelon as a source of income. White Americans didn’t like this—God forbid a black community prosper, amiright?—so they began depicting black people as brainless black (black, not brown) figures with bright red lips, chomping down on watermelon without a care in the world. Why? Well, once black Americans stopped working for free, they were widely considered “lazy,” and depicting them messily eating watermelon while white Americans were represented as upstanding, hard-working citizens provided a visual for this stereotype.
Now, did I know all of that? No, I didn’t. I learned it from the Jim Crow Museum website. But I do have enough experience as a black American to know, inherently, that serving black American children watermelon on the first day of Black History Month was a microaggression. This black British woman, with none of my personally lived experience, did not register this as offensive. The stereotypes had reached her as fact, and asking the question “Why are black Americans offended by this?” seemed to be beneath her.
Of course it would be. She’s British!
Well, what she may not know is that after the abolition of American chattel slavery, black people began growing watermelon as a source of income. White Americans didn’t like this—God forbid a black community prosper, amiright?—so they began depicting black people as brainless black (black, not brown) figures with bright red lips, chomping down on watermelon without a care in the world. Why? Well, once black Americans stopped working for free, they were widely considered “lazy,” and depicting them messily eating watermelon while white Americans were represented as upstanding, hard-working citizens provided a visual for this stereotype.
Now, did I know all of that? No, I didn’t. I learned it from the Jim Crow Museum website. But I do have enough experience as a black American to know, inherently, that serving black American children watermelon on the first day of Black History Month was a microaggression. This black British woman, with none of my personally lived experience, did not register this as offensive. The stereotypes had reached her as fact, and asking the question “Why are black Americans offended by this?” seemed to be beneath her.
Of course it would be. She’s British!
That woman’s comment is only one example of how “blackness” may not be as universal as many people perceive it to be.
The universality of blackness is, on the surface level, understandable. We all have roots going back to, most commonly, West Africa. We look the same, we wear the same hair styles, and we have the same generally uncomfortable disposition around unfamiliar white people. Our parents believe corporal punishment is the best way to discipline children, and, as a result, we’ve all been whooped (or whipped, beat, flogged, etc.) at least once. We also both feel just a little bit apprehensive around police, as police brutality against black people is extremely prominent in both countries.
So where does blackness divide itself into subcategories? Is it when black Brits visit major American cities and realize how segregated they are? Is it when black Americans read stories about how black British dialect is so similar to widespread British dialect that you can’t immediately tell you’re speaking to a black person over the phone?
Perhaps it begins when slavery was abolished in Britain, 30 years before the same occurred in America. Maybe it was when black Americans started realizing that maybe Britain had slightly better treatment of black people and began moving overseas with every war they fought.
Or maybe it’s in the little things, like how I still don’t know what it means for something to be “butters,” or how that black British lady didn’t know why watermelon is not a symbol of black American culture.
The universality of blackness is, on the surface level, understandable. We all have roots going back to, most commonly, West Africa. We look the same, we wear the same hair styles, and we have the same generally uncomfortable disposition around unfamiliar white people. Our parents believe corporal punishment is the best way to discipline children, and, as a result, we’ve all been whooped (or whipped, beat, flogged, etc.) at least once. We also both feel just a little bit apprehensive around police, as police brutality against black people is extremely prominent in both countries.
So where does blackness divide itself into subcategories? Is it when black Brits visit major American cities and realize how segregated they are? Is it when black Americans read stories about how black British dialect is so similar to widespread British dialect that you can’t immediately tell you’re speaking to a black person over the phone?
Perhaps it begins when slavery was abolished in Britain, 30 years before the same occurred in America. Maybe it was when black Americans started realizing that maybe Britain had slightly better treatment of black people and began moving overseas with every war they fought.
Or maybe it’s in the little things, like how I still don’t know what it means for something to be “butters,” or how that black British lady didn’t know why watermelon is not a symbol of black American culture.
I’m not the only one thinking about this universality, either. When Jordan Peele’s Get Out was released in 2017, with British actor Daniel Kaluuya playing the starring role, Samuel L. Jackson expressed a similar sentiment: “I tend to wonder what would that movie have been with an American brother who really understands that in a way. Because Daniel grew up in a country where they’ve been interracial dating for a hundred years. Britain, there’s only about eight real white people left in Britain. … So what would a brother from America made of that role? I’m sure the director helped. Some things are universal, but everything ain’t.”
Kaluuya responded with frustration at the fact that he had to prove his blackness in every space he walked into, ultimately feeling like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. As a brown-skinned black girl who’s faced many of the same struggles, I have a lot of sympathy for his stance. I spent my younger years constantly being told that I was so “pretty and chocolate,” and that I “talked white,” or “mature,” or that I was “well-spoken.” Pretty and chocolate. Because black people, universally, can’t be pretty without their skin tone being mentioned. Talked white, because black people, universally, must speak in vernacular, otherwise they’re not black. Mature and well-spoken, because it is, universally, surprising when you can’t immediately tell when a black person is black.
Kaluuya is in the interesting position of having his blackness scrutinized all around the world, which I, thankfully, have yet to experience. However, I have to wonder if he really researched how segregated New York City is before he learned the accent for Get Out. I have to wonder if he was familiar with Brooklyn or the Bronx, or if he took a walk down the street in the hood, and then took a walk down the street in a white suburb, and then, only after that, studied how he would depict his character’s mannerisms.
One has to wonder.
Kaluuya responded with frustration at the fact that he had to prove his blackness in every space he walked into, ultimately feeling like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. As a brown-skinned black girl who’s faced many of the same struggles, I have a lot of sympathy for his stance. I spent my younger years constantly being told that I was so “pretty and chocolate,” and that I “talked white,” or “mature,” or that I was “well-spoken.” Pretty and chocolate. Because black people, universally, can’t be pretty without their skin tone being mentioned. Talked white, because black people, universally, must speak in vernacular, otherwise they’re not black. Mature and well-spoken, because it is, universally, surprising when you can’t immediately tell when a black person is black.
Kaluuya is in the interesting position of having his blackness scrutinized all around the world, which I, thankfully, have yet to experience. However, I have to wonder if he really researched how segregated New York City is before he learned the accent for Get Out. I have to wonder if he was familiar with Brooklyn or the Bronx, or if he took a walk down the street in the hood, and then took a walk down the street in a white suburb, and then, only after that, studied how he would depict his character’s mannerisms.
One has to wonder.
I recently watched The Harder They Fall, a Western movie about two opposing gangs. That these gangs happen to be black is not very important for the plot, except for when they’re robbing a bank in a white town. Idris Elba plays the main villain, opposing the protagonist (played by Jonathan Majors), and, barring his awful Southern accent, he does a decent job playing the role.
Idris Elba, as you may know, is a black British actor. He’s a black mom heartthrob (universally). Now, I like Idris Elba. I think he’s really good in The Suicide Squad. I thought he was less good in The Harder They Fall, but he was still good. He has a larger-than-life career, and he stars in Hollywood movies playing African American roles quite often. He also had a response to Samuel L. Jackson’s comment: “The fact is: we’re all Black. You get a Scottish actor playing an Irish character or an English actor — you don’t hear about a debate. But amongst ourselves we want to point fingers because we come from a conditioning that makes people just make sure ‘where’re you from?’ and ‘are you authentic from where you’re from? How Black are you?’”
He’s not wrong, except for when he finishes up his quote by talking about how his granddad was from Kansas and fought for the U.S. in World War II, so it’s offensive to him when people find it distasteful for him to play African American roles. Or something like that.
Idris Elba, as you may know, is a black British actor. He’s a black mom heartthrob (universally). Now, I like Idris Elba. I think he’s really good in The Suicide Squad. I thought he was less good in The Harder They Fall, but he was still good. He has a larger-than-life career, and he stars in Hollywood movies playing African American roles quite often. He also had a response to Samuel L. Jackson’s comment: “The fact is: we’re all Black. You get a Scottish actor playing an Irish character or an English actor — you don’t hear about a debate. But amongst ourselves we want to point fingers because we come from a conditioning that makes people just make sure ‘where’re you from?’ and ‘are you authentic from where you’re from? How Black are you?’”
He’s not wrong, except for when he finishes up his quote by talking about how his granddad was from Kansas and fought for the U.S. in World War II, so it’s offensive to him when people find it distasteful for him to play African American roles. Or something like that.
That, in particular, makes me think about when T.I. and Tiny got into an argument with their son King a few months ago because he was trying to claim a hood he wasn’t from. And then that makes me think about how, not even a month ago, Megan thee Stallion called Drake a “cosplay gangster” in her song HISS because he tries to depict a “hard” image when he’s really just a half-black, half-Jewish guy from Toronto who starred on Degrassi when he was younger.
But then that makes me think about the Hanif Abdurraqib essay “Johnny Cash Never Shot a Man in Reno. Or, The Migos: Nice Kids from The Suburbs,” where he explored the implications and effects of demanding people be fully authentic when they provide us entertainment.
While authenticity isn’t entirely necessary when actors are playing roles and rappers are performing lyrics, I do think blackness, on a deeper level, has deeper levels, even within the same country.
Black kids from Illinois suburbs don’t have the same experiences as black kids from the inner city of Chicago. Similarly, I don’t have the same experiences living in the hood as other people who live in the same hood. I don’t know the same songs, I don’t speak the same way. These are the kids who told me I “talked white.” These are the kids I look like, the kids I gravitate towards in a room full of people I do not look like, the kids I distance myself from before conversations about new NBA Youngboy songs begin.
But then that makes me think about the Hanif Abdurraqib essay “Johnny Cash Never Shot a Man in Reno. Or, The Migos: Nice Kids from The Suburbs,” where he explored the implications and effects of demanding people be fully authentic when they provide us entertainment.
While authenticity isn’t entirely necessary when actors are playing roles and rappers are performing lyrics, I do think blackness, on a deeper level, has deeper levels, even within the same country.
Black kids from Illinois suburbs don’t have the same experiences as black kids from the inner city of Chicago. Similarly, I don’t have the same experiences living in the hood as other people who live in the same hood. I don’t know the same songs, I don’t speak the same way. These are the kids who told me I “talked white.” These are the kids I look like, the kids I gravitate towards in a room full of people I do not look like, the kids I distance myself from before conversations about new NBA Youngboy songs begin.
Blackness is not universal. But it is similar. And, when you really look at it, it’s made up of the same layers.
Think about it: on my Subway sandwich, I may get ham, and you may get turkey, and I may get mustard and pickles, and you may get mayo and lettuce, but at the end of the day, they are both Subway sandwiches.
Blackness begins at the skin—the “black” in question (really, brown). So, brown skin, then shared trauma. Being beaten with a belt, or a TV cord, or having a stray wood plank from your baby brother’s easel thrown at your hip (my older brother still complains about that). Brown skin, shared trauma, then shared experiences. Wearing braids. Listening to Kendrick (I do not need to say his last name for black people to know who I’m talking about, universally). Trash men, perhaps. Brown skin, shared trauma, shared experiences, similar socio-political positions. Protesting police brutality. Being the darkest person in the room, constantly. Having an extremely small pool of representatives who look like you.
Brown skin, shared trauma, shared experiences, similar socio-political positions—blackness.
Different skin tones, different traumatic experiences, different experiences based on the culture of where you live, varying levels of racism depending on how you look—blackness.
Light skins fighting desperately against their lightness; teasing families who feed into your insecurities so much you’re impervious to outside bullying; immigrant parents who send you to school with strong-smelling food; protesting to have the same rights as everyone else—blackness.
Where is the line drawn between sameness and similarity? I’m not quite sure. What I do know is that watermelon is delicious, but the caricature is a Jim Crow relic that lives on in the minds of black Americans, in particular.
What I do know is that if I see a black Brit in a room—or a black Canadian, or a black Nigerian, or a black Trinadadian—I’ll make a mental note of it, just in case I need someone familiar to relate to.
Think about it: on my Subway sandwich, I may get ham, and you may get turkey, and I may get mustard and pickles, and you may get mayo and lettuce, but at the end of the day, they are both Subway sandwiches.
Blackness begins at the skin—the “black” in question (really, brown). So, brown skin, then shared trauma. Being beaten with a belt, or a TV cord, or having a stray wood plank from your baby brother’s easel thrown at your hip (my older brother still complains about that). Brown skin, shared trauma, then shared experiences. Wearing braids. Listening to Kendrick (I do not need to say his last name for black people to know who I’m talking about, universally). Trash men, perhaps. Brown skin, shared trauma, shared experiences, similar socio-political positions. Protesting police brutality. Being the darkest person in the room, constantly. Having an extremely small pool of representatives who look like you.
Brown skin, shared trauma, shared experiences, similar socio-political positions—blackness.
Different skin tones, different traumatic experiences, different experiences based on the culture of where you live, varying levels of racism depending on how you look—blackness.
Light skins fighting desperately against their lightness; teasing families who feed into your insecurities so much you’re impervious to outside bullying; immigrant parents who send you to school with strong-smelling food; protesting to have the same rights as everyone else—blackness.
Where is the line drawn between sameness and similarity? I’m not quite sure. What I do know is that watermelon is delicious, but the caricature is a Jim Crow relic that lives on in the minds of black Americans, in particular.
What I do know is that if I see a black Brit in a room—or a black Canadian, or a black Nigerian, or a black Trinadadian—I’ll make a mental note of it, just in case I need someone familiar to relate to.