Being Black at CC

Prompted by both a postcard in my mailbox encouraging me to discuss “Being Black at Connecticut College” and the 18 years of blackness I have under my belt, I’ve compiled my own list of ten things that encompass the “black experience” at Conn, for those of you who missed it (I know I did—it was raining really hard, and Being Black, I didn’t want to chance getting my hair wet).

Be forewarned: I embellish. A lot.

1. Initiation into ALANA.

There is a plethora of opinions on the ALANA Big Sib program, a voluntary additional advising program in which a freshman-of-color is paired with an upperclassman-of-color. Note the “-of-color” requirement: I’ve had friends who have wanted to participate in this program, as it is quite similar to the role of a Student Advisor, but they were turned down due to their pesky skin pigment, or lack thereof. As one friend put it: “Well, it’s not called WALANA, so I can’t be in it. I mean, what’s the point of having a club that everyone can be in? That’s stupid.”

2. Lobstergate.

Let’s not even go there.

3. Explaining your hair.

Last year, I had an epiphany. Damali Ayo, author and public speaker, came to our school for a presentation. Within her talk, she showed us a shirt that changed my life: emblazoned on the front, in dark, take-me-serious letters, the shirt read: “Touch your own hair.” Being Black at Connecticut College, I think I have singlehandedly risen awareness about how many times a month I wash my hair (The answer is two to three — Being Black, most black people wash their hair every week and a half to two weeks). The slightly frightened looks I get after giving this information—“…can I touch it?”, hand precariously over my head, as if bugs and worms will sprout out at any second—become amused when I begin to explain that I don’t use gel, but I put grease in my hair.

“But your hair is SO GREASY.”

Yes. That’s because I put grease in my hair.

4. Awkward racist instances.

Anything from coloring in a picture of your black friend’s face with marker to rapping along to a song and forgetting that it’s “nigga,” not “nigger” is just… awkward. So… stop it.

5. Being the only black person in the room.

It’s the third class of your freshman seminar, and your name is the only one that your professor knows thus far. Assuming that it is your knack for registering for classes online with flair, you look around and realize that, Being Black, no one else in the room looks like you, so it’d make no sense for the professor to call you Elizabeth like she does three other girls. This also means that you’re called on more often, which sucks.

This instance can be compared to its opposite: that is…

6. Being one of two black people in the room.

Walking down the street on a sunny day, you see someone in the distance waving enthusiastically at you. Slightly confused, you wave back, and they yell,

“Hey, Alex!”

Your name is Jazmine. Well, my name is Jazmine. Not Alex. Alex is the other black girl with hair.

Well, this is awkward. You’re in front of Cro and they’re emerging from the LGBTQ Center. Do you pretend it never happened, or do you stammer, “Um, no, I’m… um… not who you think I am,” and run away?

Or what about in the classroom: a professor double checks that you’ve chosen to sign up for a particular assignment.

“Let’s see. We have you down for… the cultural significance of and recipe for fried chicken, yes?”

Sighing exasperatedly, you say, “No, no, no, that’s not me. I’m writing about cornbread and collard greens.”

7. “You don’t really act black.”/“You are the whitest black person I know.”

There is much to say about the above phrases, but it can be summed up in one sentence: Just don’t say it. Being Black, I am, for lack of a better word, black, despite the fact that Stuff White People Like can be adequately be retitled Stuff Jazmine Really, Really Likes.

In essence, however, the above phrases are offensive and just plain weird. Is there some type of Being Black guidebook that I’ve failed to read? You, master of arbitrating blackness—can you get me a copy? Pointers? Tips? Being Black means being yourself, not adhering what people think you’re supposed to be.

8. The chance that you’ll end up on the website/in a brochure.

In an episode of Scrubs, main characters Turk, a black guy, and JD, a white guy, are reminiscing over their college days. Turk asks, “Remember our college brochures?” JD replies, “Yeah, they put you on the cover. So what?” Turk exclaims, “Yeah — twice!” and the camera zooms into a picture of four or five smiling college students, arms linked, with Turk’s face superimposed on two bodies.

Thankfully, our campus has not reached that level — but flip through a viewbook or peruse the website: nearly every picture shows Conn as a happy land of diversity, in not just race, but sex/gender, height, and colors of the students’ Connecticut College hoodies. Being Black probably places you in a top position to be featured in Conn materials.

…Still I’d love to be featured on the website.

Not even gonna front.

9. “You’re my first black friend.

Always whispered ashamedly while drunk, I’ve received this — compliment? Confession? Secret? about my friendships in relation to me Being Black — four times during my time at Conn. While this is fathomable, given the demographics of schools and neighborhoods, and the fact that most people don’t choose where they attend high school, it still strikes me as odd that some people have gone eighteen, nineteen years without having a single black friend. I got my first white friend when I was around four. I mean, she was a Barbie, but I made plenty more [non-plastic] white friends.

10. Being invited to talks about Being Black at Connecticut College.

Because that wouldn’t happen to anyone else.

For my entire life, I’ve classified myself as “human”. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers, a bellybutton, crappy eyesight. Birthdays, boobs, boogers—humanity wasn’t anything to think about it, it was just something to be. Being reminded that I had to be conscious about Being Black was odd to me, hence this criticism. Given my exaggerations and openly admitting that, yes, sometimes I do perpetuate things in the aforementioned list, I still don’t understand why this is such a hot topic at Connecticut College. We are somewhat homogenous in our campus’ racial composition, but instead of realizing it as a reality of a small liberal arts college in New England, we critique and analyze and beat it down with questions, talking about it every chance we get. I am not saying that there shouldn’t be a dialogue about race at Connecticut College, because there very well should, but why must this dialogue be constant?

My trip to my mailbox was ruined by my invitation to Be Black, something I’ve been doing since birth. Again, I did not attend the talk, thus I cannot adequately criticize it for being unnecessary. But why does my time at Connecticut College have to be an experience? Why can’t I just be black?