A Letter From Our Co-Founder: Why I Must Prove My Blackness – A Suburban Black Girl Story

Early one morning, I received a group text from my Grandma that included my mom. This text was different from her typical messages about my animals, life updates, well wishes, etc. With the death of Charlie Kirk, I felt emboldened to share my opinion on social media and call out his divisive, hateful, racist, sexist, homophobic (the list goes on) rhetoric he spread with the world during his time here. After getting a response to my post from a Facebook “friend” I truly didn’t even know defending Kirk’s rhetoric, I, to say the least, went off. A few days later, that’s when I received a worried text from my Grandmother.

Her concerns were about how this makes me look to the public, professionally and spiritually, even. These are valid concerns. I shared this text with my husband, who then questioned, “Well, why do you feel the need to share your opinion online?” This was a valid question, which led me into some deep soul searching and realizations I desperately needed to have.

My proximity to Whiteness is unnaturally close. I live and grew up in Denver, Colorado, most of my friends are White, my husband is Half-White, my co-workers are White and where I go and how I operate around the city contains more White People than not. Growing up this way, it never really bothered me. I’ve always wanted to fit in, I’m a huge people pleaser, and I love being around people who are different from me.

However, growing up this way and not having a community of Black and Brown friends invited a lot of treatment that I used to accept.

As I continued to grow into myself, I realized the people I allowed in my life were WAY too comfortable saying the most outrageous and flat-out racist things to me. And I made them comfortable to do so. I used to ask myself, why did they feel so comfortable? Is it the way I come across? Am I the exception when it comes to having a Black friend? Am I their only Black friend? Yes. For most of my friends, I truly am their only Black friend.

I recently saw a TikTok from creator and Founder of Healthy Roots Dolls, Yelitsa. She shared how she too navigates predominantly white spaces, and her favorite thing to do is reveal to new white people that she is not “Candice Owen’s Black,” she is “I am about to make everyone in this room incredibly uncomfortable Black.” I have never resonated with something more. However, one thing she said horrified me. It brought up the question, “Do people look at me like I am Candice Owen’s Black?”

This fear haunted me for years. And at 29 years old, I’m not afraid to say that I do still care about what people think of me and how I come across.

I think the biggest turning point for me was when my old therapist told my husband and I, “I don’t believe or agree with Black Lives Matter.” Why did she feel so comfortable saying that to me?

Going through this soul-searching time, I’m realizing that maybe I am more vocal on social media because, for me, it is a shield. I’m letting people who look at my content know that this is what I believe. This is where I draw a line in the sand. No, you cannot feel comfortable saying out-of-pocket and racist things to me. I am not your exception. I am trying so hard to prove myself to them and prove this to myself. Is this a trauma response? Yes, most likely. But does this make it wrong? Not entirely.

After receiving this text from my Grandma, I took a moment to respond and addressed that her concerns are valid, but also not to be concerned. I shared with her that I am passionate and outspoken about what is going on in the world. Every day we all see something new, and it tears me apart. I shared with her that this generation is becoming more and more outspoken, and it’s important for all of us to say something. I then called my mom and had the same conversation. She shared the same concerns as my Grandma, but accepted the fact that this is just something our generation stands on. 

While we discussed the different generational gaps, we spoke about how communities are built and how parasocial relationships are defined. Now, when you share things and say things online, it really does affect who you want to follow. Social media used to be a space where you could stalk your old high school teammates and classmates and count how many kids they have. Now, those same classmates are suddenly “God-fearing” with very hurtful right-wing beliefs.

We all had moments this year flipping through stories of people we cheerleaded with, played soccer with, partied with decades or days ago, feeling horrified about what they just shared, and revealing who they voted for. This leads to so much shock and confusion. It’s either, “Damn I really rocked with her in middle school,” or “She high-key said the N-word to me during cheer practice, this tracks.” (true story, this girl CHEERED and spelled out the N word right in front of me, and to this day will ask about where I got Halloween decorations on my story).

But am I the victim here? Absolutely not. Here are the facts: I couldn’t help where I grew up; that’s a story for another time. What I can control is who I surround myself with now, how I value my relationships, my time and how I stand up for myself. The way I am doing that currently is ever-growing. My story is not unique; we are all trying to figure out how to identify ourselves and how to feel seen and heard, especially during this confusing time.

I almost think it doesn’t even matter how you present or stand up for yourself because, regardless, if someone has an opposing view as yours, they also want to be seen and heard. It’s not always about comfort. It’s more so about controlling your narrative, and that’s what we all want, no matter what race, gender, sexual orientation, or political spectrum you are on.

So will I continue to share my thoughts and opinions online? Of course I will. I’m a writer, and hell, I’m doing it right now.