Processing Blackness

Guest article by Shima St. Germain
Agnes Scott College

It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness,
Please don’t mock.
Please don’t giggle amongst each other when I pass.
This sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others,
It’s awkward.
It’s awkward because you’re staring.
Of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity,
Your stares remind me of my skin.
My skin reminds me of all the things I’m not in your eyes.
So please don’t mock

DISCONNECT
How can I connect?
When they validate my thoughts,
As they giggle and say,
“They think you’re so exotic”,
“And they were like, n****r, n****r, n****r”,

How can I connect?
When they play their music with the n words
Blaring and drowning out my silent discomfort,

When they say,
“Well, is it just a race thing?”
When I’m trying to explain a situation more complex and nuanced,
When my emotions are reduced to a single repeated narrative
Of the Black girl being too sensitive,
Forcing redaction, retracing, skin hardening,
How can I connect?

To be conscious of Whiteness,
When Whiteness is not conscious of Blackness,
When Whiteness feels discomfort only at the mention of Blackness,
How can I connect?

When their actions reflect the actions of those back home,
Confirming that no matter where I go,
My struggles will still suffer from erasure,
That being Black in Malaysia
Comes second to being Black among Americans
Generalizing the American experience
And expecting I’ll agree and grin and bear it

How can I connect?
When they barge in, uninvited, unwelcomed, unwanted,
Leaving no space for privacy nor safety,
When they don’t notice the discomfort.

How can I connect?
When I looked for an ally,
When I wanted to confide and wanted to be raw and true
But was reduced to just another race thing,
When I was ignored as me,
But accepted as the version of me who’s always adapted, assimilated

So how can I connect?
When I’ve grown jaded with Whiteness,
When no matter how many times I look at things through their white lens,
They won’t stoop to pick up my black lens,
And though I sympathize and empathize with their difficulties,
Mine is just another narrative
Written off as the angry black girl,
Who can no longer get angry,
Since she’s making it out to be just another race thing,
‘Cause God forbid she brings her perspectives into the mix.

THE RINGGIT QUESTION
Miss where are you from?
America.
Where did you think I was from?
She laughs.
I chuckle.
Leave the answer in the air.
What a breath of fresh air when ignorance is adorable.