Authentically Self-Conscious

Last week, while walking through my neighborhood, I saw a family sitting in their front yard. All of the adults and teens were smiling and laughing as they watched this beautiful toddler dance around the yard to music that was in her head and, apparently, very good. Her juicy, little, brown body was clearly new to walking – she wobbled or fell after every 8-count of her choreography. Each time, she would get back up, shrieking with joy, and resume her clapping, wiggling, and toddling.

I looked on as long as social norms would allow and then continued my walk. I thought about the scene for days after that, reveling in the apparent love in the family circle. It made me miss my family but, more than that, it made me wonder about when little black girls lose their ability to freely dance to the beat of their own music.

I don't know when that period of freedom and unconcern ended for me, but it definitely happened before elementary school. Now that I've reviewed the textbook definitions of these words often used interchangeably, I realize I was never insecure (not confident or assured); nor was I low on self-esteem (confidence in one's own worth or abilities); but I was, and remain, very self-conscious (feeling undue awareness of oneself, one's appearance, or one's actions).

There are many reasons for this. I've always been "tall for a girl." In my formative years, this impacted everything from placement in photos and line-ups, to my ability to find pants and sleeves of appropriate length. I will never forget the teacher that said that, even though I had the best singing voice and acting ability, I couldn't play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz because I was taller than all of the boys (a.k.a. the potential Lions, Scarecrows, Tinmen, and Wizards).

Also, I have always been hyper-aware of my natural ability to lead groups. In elementary, middle, and high school, my peers pushed me to lead groups or assumed I would be the leader. This worked in my favor for student elections. By the time I became a high school junior, I was simultaneously president of eleven clubs, including Student Council, the Rotary club, and the Science Club. The principal told me I was not allowed to run for class president because I "needed to let someone else have a turn." The music teacher told me he never really considered my audition for the school musical because he felt I was "too busy." (Was the faculty tired of seeing my "Make the right choice and write Wright on your ballot" posters?)

I have uncovered high school journals where I described myself as a "floater" because I was simultaneously accepted by the cool kids, the nerds, the goths, and everyone in between. In one particular journal entry, I talked about how being a floater helped me to protect my nerdy friends from being bullied. I attributed the skillset to my upbringing as a Preacher's Kid – getting along with everyone was a part of the job description.

More than anything, I have always been very aware of my blackness. I can't recall the number of times I was told that I was somehow pretty despite my dark skin or how early, and often that message was fed to me. I remember my second-grade teacher holding me back from getting on the bus for the Scholars Program because she didn't believe I had actually been accepted – she never looked at any list, just assumed. I remember being called an "oreo" because I didn't use slang. I remember being followed around a convenience store and wondering why my straight A's and service-learning hours weren't enough to keep me from being treated like a thief. I also remember my parents putting special care into our appearance and "how to act" guidance when white adults were going to be present in a space.

Nowadays, for good or bad, I remain hyper-aware of all of these things.

In a world where black women are seen as aggressive when they are only being clear and assertive, being a foot taller than all of the other women in the room really doesn't help matters. It is especially unhelpful if the person in positional authority is a man that is shorter than me, or generally considered short – before I open my mouth, he is often on the defensive. I wore flats or very low heels for the first several years of my professional career and still use them for interviews and first meetings with people, especially white people. This is a minor part of the more extensive assimilationist packaging and mindset that are always with me and can be put on hyper-drive when needed. Black people learn really early that minimizing some of the "noise" in the communication channel between ourselves and white people might save you from a few common and hurtful microaggressions. In some cases, it can actually save your life.

Research has confirmed what we have always known: navigating all of this is both exhausting and traumatic for black people. This is especially true for those of us in leadership roles. As the sole black executive at a major nonprofit organization, the stakes are incredibly high for me. Everything I say or don't say, do or don't do, and wear or don't wear, must somehow represent, protect, champion, and enable all of the black people that have or will ever be a part of the organization's employee or constituent groups. I'm not complaining, I'm just sharing this to say that I am very self-conscious all of the time. Even in the moments when I am my most authentic self, I am unduly aware that I am doing it.

The more comfortable I become with who I am, the more self-conscious I actually become, especially as I start to make choices that feel more authentic. This is because I know that things like wearing my hair in its natural texture or choosing self-care over my responsibility to care for others are revolutionary. This paradox is, of course, not unique to me. Shonda Rhimes, the brilliant television industry mogul, coined a prolific term relevant for this discussion, F.O.D. (First, Only, Different.) In her book, The Year of Yes, she talks about being a black female showrunner. "When you are an F.O.D., you are saddled with that burden of extra responsibility — whether you want it or not…You can't be raised black in America and not know…This wasn't just my shot. It was ours."

Because there are so many places where black people have yet to be truly represented, the little black girl I saw dancing in her yard will likely be a F.O.D. She only has a few years before she starts to figure out that she lives in a country that doesn't value her life and has a fundamental culture of "othering" the things about her that make her unique. I'm really happy I got to see her dance.

Harambee!

Genia Wright, Free Time Aficionado

www.geniawright.com

P.S. For white subscribers that want to have a better understanding of how this loss of innocence plays out for black parents and children, I recommend Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. This is a letter from the author to his son, black father to his black child, where he explains why his child can't afford childhood-type innocence. The cost of not understanding this could be and often is, the murder or incarceration of black children.