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When I first realised that I'm Black

In honour of Black History Month, I’m going to share with you a snippet of my history as a black person. You must be reading the title of this article and wondering how it’s possible for a black person not to realise that they’re black. But that was exactly my case; there are situations I went through that made me aware of the box society strives to keep ethnic minorities in.

Amia - The Beacon Editor

By Amia - The Beacon Editor

Wednesday, 30 October 2024

When I first realised that I’m Black 

I grew up in West London, and I went to a predominantly Asian secondary school. I didn’t realise how many microaggressions I faced during my high school experience. Being part of the small handful of black students, I quickly adapted to my environment and paid little attention to what others may perceive as an awkward situation. I miss the innocence and naivety I had in Year 7. Little Amia used to come in with her hair ‘undone’, afro standing tall at the top of my head. Funny enough, my hair was always styled by my mum. She experimented with all kinds of designs, shapes and accessories; and they drew a crowd every single time- for reasons I didn’t know then but were later revealed as fascination and awe. It’s quite uncomfortable being in the centre of a circle of people poking at your “fluffy” hair that reminded them of “teddy bear stuffing”.

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I vividly remember me being in the P.E. changing room, when our usual girly chit chats erupted. We began talking about body image. I’m shocked that we were having such critical conversations at the tender age of 14. The conversation swiftly moved onto me, when one girl questioned why I was so skinny “for a black girl.” She delved even deeper, asking why I wasn’t curvy or thick enough “for a black girl.” Hearing that at the age of 14 sent me into a spiral of thoughts and questions that I did not need at that age. Prior to that, the state of my body wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. But I began to wonder if I was upholding the correct standard; not only as a black girl, but one of the select few in my year group.

The microaggressions also seeped into aspects of school that were meant to be fun and light-hearted. P.E for example, as a black female, it felt like my race immediately made me eligible for the athletics team. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved to run, and I was fast. But what if I wasn’t? Would my teachers be disappointed? Would they also think something is wrong with me “for a black girl”? Proudly, I was the undefeated 100m champion from year 7 to 11, but a sport that I anticipated would be my release came with an intense amount of pressure from my peers and teachers. There was a sports day where I really did not want to run. We were discussing who’d run for each race, and my entire class, including my teacher, begged me to run. Unfortunately, I hadn’t matured in my assertiveness, and I’d feel obliged to do things in order not to let people down.

As the years went on, I grew in my confidence. Not solely as a black female, but as Amia.

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Moving to Dunstable in 2022 was a transitional period for me because of how much time I spent on my own. I don’t think I was fully aware of who I am, which is why it was so easy for people around me to try to put me in a box that fit their view of who I should be. I needed to be separate from the secondary school era and everyone who was in it. I found myself experimenting with different aesthetics, loving how I suited each item I put on. I began to see myself as a Barbie doll, which I could customise and adore.

I appreciate my family, my aunt especially, who would always educate me on black history. Not that depressing, oppressive narrative labelled as ‘black history’, but the regal legacy my ancestors left us to uncover.

What I used to view as “teddy bear stuffing”, I now treasure as a versatile crown. What I used to view as an inadequate body “for a Black girl”, I now admire as beautifully bronze skin and bones sculpted by God Himself.

I harnessed this perspective by detaching myself from the standards of society. In a world that tells you who you should be, I challenge you to find yourself. We’re conditioned to believe that Black History revolves around the Slave Trade, and this is the regressive mindset we need to drop. My family sowed seeds in me from childhood, rooted in the confident, self-assured aura I should walk with. They knew the struggles I’d face in secondary school, because they faced worse. I cannot define what it means to be Black, but your identity was predestined before you were even born, and nobody can take that from you.