Existing While Black
I never truly realized the struggles of being Black when I was younger. Back then, I was just a kid, too distracted by childhood to fully notice the way the world looked at me. But as I got older, those moments became impossible to ignore. I remember children staring at my dark skin, laughing and mocking me for something I could never change. It made me feel disconnected from myself, like I was standing outside my own body watching it happen.
One memory still stays with me vividly. I walked into a beauty supply store during the summer heat wearing simple shorts, a loose T-shirt, and sandals, just trying to find products for my hair texture. The shelves around me were packed tightly with wigs, oils, braiding hair, and products I was still trying to understand as a young girl. The store owner immediately began following me through every aisle. I could hear her footsteps trailing behind mine no matter where I turned. Then she called another worker over just to watch me while I stood there confused, trying to decide what product I even needed.
Meanwhile, another woman in the store, lighter than me, walked freely with a bag big enough to hide half the store inside it, yet no one questioned her presence. But me? I was treated like I already did something wrong simply for existing there. I remember standing frozen in the hair aisle pretending not to notice the stares burning into my back. Then the worker came up to me impatiently and told me to hurry up and decide already. I was still just a child trying to figure things out, but in that moment I felt small, unwanted, and beneath everyone around me.
It was not just stores either. It was hearing people say, “You don’t act Black,” as if being Black was supposed to come with one personality, one voice, one way of existing. It was people casually throwing racial slurs at me like jokes and expecting me to laugh along with them. Those moments stayed with me because I realized how normalized disrespect toward Black people could become.
One of the hardest things to witness was watching people loudly preach about “Black unity,” yet be the same ones who enjoyed tearing down people who looked like them. I watched people mock darker skin, certain features, certain ways of speaking, or treat other Black people as “less than,” while constantly admiring and chasing acceptance from people who did not even look like them. It was painful watching people defend strangers more passionately than they defended their own people.
Sometimes it felt like being accepted meant becoming “less Black,” softer, quieter, or more digestible to others. And hearing those things from your own people cuts deeper because you expect understanding from them. You expect comfort from people who know what discrimination feels like. Instead, some become the very voices that continue the same wounds.
Even asking strangers for simple directions sometimes felt humiliating. I would see fear flash across people’s faces before they even answered me, or they would respond with irritation and anger as if my confusion bothered them. Sometimes the pain hurt more seeing people of my own color treat others with more kindness and patience than they treated people who looked like them. You begin to notice these patterns everywhere once the world forces your eyes open.
Dating became another painful reminder. The second people found out I was Black, it felt like I was either reduced to some secret fetish they wanted to “try once” or suddenly ignored and ghosted completely. Rarely treated softly. Rarely treated equally.
So I constantly ask myself: why are Black women treated as if they are less deserving of gentleness, respect, and understanding? Why is everything they do criticized more harshly? Why are they spoken about negatively by men of their own race while also being judged by everyone else? It feels like no matter what a Black woman does, the world is already waiting to attach something negative to her existence before she even speaks.