Description of Black Author of the Month
Black Author of the Month is a monthly issue aimed at bringing awareness to the plights faced by Black people in the form of anonymous Black Pearsonites, and their struggles with being black and manoeuvring through a society founded on the backs of their ancestors. This monthly issue is meant to provide the Pearson campus with a new perspective – into the mind of their very own.
Introduction to Black Author of the Month – Written by (BAM)
Take your hoodie off. Never run from the police. Keep your hands to yourself whenever you are in the store. Never talk back. Always smile and be polite.
These are the phrases that have always resonated with me since I was young. Walking around in a tainted body, as society hurdled words at me like ‘thug’, ‘thief’, ‘good for nothing’. My body constantly sexualized and seen as an object of lust and desire; seen as the ‘Jezebel’, ‘the angry black woman’, but never seen as a child, innocent and worth loving.
Being Black has always been a struggle. Learning at age 10 that the white kids in my class calling me the n-word was going to be the new normal. Seeing disgust written on the faces of my teachers as I innocently wore clothes that I felt comfortable in, hearing the whispers of the boy I had a crush on telling his friends that he could never ‘like a Black Girl’.
I grew up knowing my right to live was seen as a political issue. People constantly telling me I was not small enough, not obedient or not fragile enough, not quite enough.
During quarantine, those thoughts swirled in my head, the static getting louder every time I closed my eyes, or watched the news, or went on Instagram. I constantly felt pulled underwater, desperately trying to grab onto branches to hold myself up.
Now, you would think I eventually found my way back to the surface because of the compassion and kindness I received from the people around me. But it was not. I found my way back because of anger. I was furious with people telling me that I would never be able to walk into a store and not get followed by the police, I was furious that people kept calling to ask how I was feeling, and I was furious at the complacency of the black bodies around me, acting as though having to fight for our right to live as normal, and okay.
And so, I did the only thing I knew how to.
I wrote letters and stories. I wrote paragraphs and essays and everything in between. And when I was tired, I wrote some more.
I eventually realized that all the words I was writing started to make sense, coming together to have one solid goal. To have my voice heard. To have my voice yelled from the hills of the pen – to the plains and rivers on the paper below. To tell whoever was willing to listen, that I was on a journey of self-discovery and growth. To learn to love my blackness from the inside out. To treasure every thought that came to my mind, and water droplet that touched the dark melanin of my skin. And to love being black.
So, I will write. I will pour my heart into these pages because somehow, I will be seen, and I will be heard.