Being Black in America and Why Some Things Never Change

June 19, 2020.

I am a Black Woman.  I was born free and grew up in a society where I was able to experience liberties that my ancestors fought for and ultimately died for.  I learned to read and write before the age of five.  I went to a public school that was integrated.  I played the violin.  I graduated at the top of my class.  I married a hard-working black man who loves my beautiful melanin skin.  I love everything about my black man…his strength, his courage, his vulnerabilities.  I love that he was raised single handedly by his black mother.  I love that even though he lived in unsafe neighborhoods and was surrounded by drugs, alcohol, sex and poverty, he didn’t become a product of his environment. 

Despite much opposition, he pushed himself and eventually graduated with a Master’s Degree from The George Washington University.  He surrounded himself with people who were successful, goal-oriented and hardworking.  Like Martin Luther King, he had a dream and his dream was to capitalize on every opportunity and challenge in order to leave a legacy for our children and our children’s children.  He is a man of integrity who loves God and loves his family.  He enjoys movie nights with his wife and kids.  He loves taking his daughter out on dates.  He attends recitals, school sporting events, and awards ceremonies.  He sows into the lives of other children, as well as extended family and single moms.  He rarely misses church even if he puts in 60 or more hours in a normal work week.  He is a gentle giant…always giving, always caring, always thankful.  At home he is our hero.  Outside of our home he is a threat.  

I recently read a comment on social media that stated “I never owned any slaves and you never picked any cotton, so why do you all keep bringing up the past?”  I sat and reflected on the “why.”  I went back as far as elementary school.  I attended Prince Edward County Schools, the school district that went down in history for its refusal to integrate after the Brown vs Board of Education ruling in 1954.  The district was so dead set against allowing whites to be educated with blacks, that they chose to close all of their public schools for the next 5 years.  Desegregation still happened but the hearts of many had not changed.

During my elementary years, one of my teachers decided to have me tested because she said I didn’t read or process things as quickly as the other students.  Maybe it had something to do with my sexual trauma—I don’t know.  Regardless, I was consistently on the honor roll.  That didn’t stop my teacher from informing my mom that they were pursuing to place me in Special Education.  My mom graciously declined and then she so kindly required that they put me in classes with the gifted students so that I could have equal access to materials that stimulated my learning abilities. 

Several years later I remember being excited about getting my report card because I was working so hard to get all As.  When my mom opened my report card, I had been given a “F” in Math which was one of my favorite subjects.  I didn’t understand.  My mom went to the school and met with my white teacher.  The teacher explained that he had mistakenly recorded Fs in the gradebook under my name but it should have been for the student whose name was listed next to mine.  That was odd.  Surely my white teacher knew that I was one of the top students in his Math class.  Surely he would have caught his mistake when he put the F beside my name and then again on my report card which only had my name on it. 

I thought about the time that my husband and I were getting groceries for the month.  We had two shopping baskets full of food.  When we got up to the register, the lady looked at me and asked if we were paying with EBT.  I acted as if I didn’t know what she was talking about even though I was a social worker and knew that she was referring to food stamps.  I asked her why she would assume such a thing and what did it matter.  Golden silence was her response.  We took out our bank debit card and smiled as we paid for our groceries.

And the list goes on. It is very difficult to leave the past in the past if you are continuously dealing with the same issues in the present. Most people want to forget traumatic situations.  But when things continue to happen that trigger those emotions, it is easy to find yourself reliving past events.

In 1996, I was graduating from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, a majority white college.  I had experienced racism more than I wanted to in a decade full of modern liberties and presumed equalities.  I dealt with my frustrations by writing about it in a poem.

Some Things Never Change

You know what’s really funny?

It’s that some things never change.

You would think that after all these years

Our minds wouldn’t be so deranged.

Some actually think I don’t know when all eyes are fixed on me.

Oh, I’ve played this game for quite some time,

Like it or not it’s reality.

I know it’s not my job to judge another’s thoughts or looks,

But it’s hard to ignore that phony smile

when I can read it like a book.

When I walk into a restaurant that happens to be “quality,”

I sometimes feel I’m the star of the show with all eyes stuck on me.

Well I’d glance around and notice only a few are actually my kin,

Then I realize that it’s not my smile, simply the color of my skin.

Sometimes I’ll just go shopping, not thinking my status I’ll have to prove-

But then to my surprise I’ll spot this clerk who’s watching my every move.

Or when I walk in a bank, it’s not my finesse, or my charm, or my inner beauty-

It’s the color of my face that intimidates them so,

Yes, my color that makes them judge my property.

Well I can’t ignore it, refuse to accept it;

 won’t try to constrain or rearrange,

But I will continue to love and to walk in dignity,

For I have realized that some things never change.

 –Tecia Ray © All rights reserved.

Some things never change because while policies and laws have evolved, the hearts of many have remained the same.  The year is now 2020 and Black Americans are still being traumatized. Racism and hate are still permeating the walls of our country.  No, we are not in slavery, and no, we are not picking cotton.  America has progressed. 

We are no longer silenced by whips but by guns. We are no longer sold to slave owners but to prisons.  We are no longer depicted as uneducated, but as welfare recipients, thugs and criminals.  We are no longer raped by our masters, but are now passed around in human trafficking rings where the master has managed to exploit our girls, make millions of dollars by doing so, all while remaining out of prison and out the eye of the media. 

Yet our headlines are flooded daily with black on black crimes and black on white violations.  Our black men are serving years in prison for simple theft and drug charges.   Little black girls have to witness their daddies being executed by a system that has vowed to protect them.  Our black boys are continuously suspended, charged and kicked out of schools by those who claim to have no idea why they are angry, frustrated and exhausted. These are the systems that have failed us.

As I ponder the recent events in America, the unjust deaths of Rayshard Brooks, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor, I can’t help but think about the nameless black families that have suffered as a result of the hate and injustices in our country.  Racism has not gone away.  It has been taught, cultivated and passed down from one generation to the next.  Blacks are still feared and hatred still exists.  

Knowing this, we still cannot fight hate with hate. We fight with love.  We fight with our voice. We fight with the intellectual understanding that we must use spiritual weapons and not the world’s weapons to “knock down the strongholds of human reasoning, and to destroy false arguments. We destroy every proud obstacle that keeps people from knowing God. We capture their rebellious thoughts and teach them to obey Christ,” 2 Corinthians 10:4-5 (NLT).

Some things may never change but we must be assured of this one fact…God is not blind and he is not deaf.  He sees and he hears all, and he is allowing the schemes that have been hidden and covered up for so long, to now surface so all can see. He is dealing with hearts that have been hardened with hate. He is visiting the homes and the jobs and the secret places of the oppressors.  The covers are being pulled.  Prayers are being answered, and God is working behind the scenes.