I used to hate Black people. Well, hate is strong. But seeing as my aversion to Blackness was born of internalised racism that ultimately lead to a deep and entrenched self-loathing, hate seems to be the appropriate word of choice.

I’m not sure at what age it began, but I know it was reaffirmed at school. Subtle hints of discomforts in primary that intensified the Whiter my surroundings became in secondary. A thought that was likely planted from a western centric TV show that then grew into a life of its own.

Though from a young age I understood that my perceived inferiority had something to do with race, I had not yet learnt the word racism. And so, instead of blaming my lack of self-worth on a prejudice society, I resented myself for being Black.

As the years went on my self-hatred began to bleed into my perception of the Black community. I became surrounded by who those felt the need to aggressively stereotype and my rejection of those assumptions bred an acute resentment within me.

White ignorance defines Blackness as loud, aggressive, criminal, uneducated, poverty stricken, ghetto and a charity case, as if the only way we were ever going to succeed and overcome is at the hand and mercy of Whiteness. And that is something that I overtime internalised, though passionately noted, did not apply to me. And for this definition and the negative connotations that it had on my life, I blamed my people.

When I looked at the western perception of Blackness, I didn’t see years of slavery and residual colonial oppression. I didn’t see racism, or rather, I didn’t understand the discrimination that I saw. And so instead, I blamed Blackness, my own and that of every person who ever lived up to the negative stereotypes, whether that reinforcement was within their control or not.

My subconscious reaction to the internalised racism was to separate myself from Blackness. In a bid to assimilate, it became my mission to go against everything they assumed me to be. I started weaving my hair and cremating it with straighteners. I changed the way I spoke to sound ‘Whiter’ and ‘more educated’. I tempered myself in anger inducing situations so I wouldn’t come across as aggressive and difficult. I shrunk. I made myself smaller to appear Whiter and for a while it worked. I almost forgot I was Black and existed in some troubled peace, though admittedly, a vital part of me was missing.

For a while it worked, I assimilated. That was until the day that I tripped up and it became apparent that regardless of how much of my Blackness I denied, they were going to look at me in the same way regardless. ‘So, what exactly are we doing here?’ I’d later look back and ask myself.

Interestingly, my distain for Blackness was a distinctly western issue. It didn’t seem to exist when I’d be back home in Zimbabwe or South Africa. Black is the majority there. Black joy is felt and celebrated there.

Yes, colourism is rife, but my African-British identity struggle always overrode the colourist debate in my mind. And so, for me, embracing my Blackness only ever brought me closer to my African-ness, which is all I ever wanted. Blackness in the UK however, only seemed to bring me struggle and strife. That was until I finally stopped running away from it.

All I can say is, we thank God for the diverse melting pot that was my university. I very suddenly went from being the only Black girl to one of many. I gradually submerged myself in Black British culture and surrounded myself with my likeness. I began debunking the stereotype and undoing the web of racism that had been so tightly woven in my perception of not only how Blackness applied to the wider community, but what it meant to me.

Looking back, I see how in my denial of Blackness, I denounced myself before I even knew who it was that I was rejecting and ultimately denied myself a journey of self-discovery – one that I could only truly begin by acknowledging just how harmful I had been.

In time, I went from being a self-hating and internalised racist to a self-loving and proud Black woman obsessed with the joy and success of her community; a transformation that while I am grateful for, regret and am at times ashamed to admit that I ever needed to undergo.

So, why am I telling you this? Well, because owning your stuff is important. We as a people, are so afraid of being accused of misogynoir, being called racist or self-hating that instead of focusing on what we did or said to warrant said accusation, we hyper-fixate on having ever been associated with something so negative.

We do this because being called out is not only shaming, but it forces us to acknowledge how our ignorance could have contributed to the wider issue – which, can be a tough pill to swallow. Many understandably, though unacceptably, would rather take the easy way out and bury their heads in the sand, as if refusing to acknowledge your’ prejudice somehow means that you’re no longer a part of the problem or makes you a better person than the one who did. It doesn’t. It only leads to more harm than good. And those are not the people that we’re trying to be.

So, own your stuff. Acknowledge where you’ve been a self-hating internalised racist. Acknowledge your misogynoir and overall prejudice. Acknowledge your ignorance, especially when wilful. And when you’ve done that, put in the work, learn, acknowledge how much you’ve grown and be proud. Become better; those are the people we’re trying to be.

Own your stuff friend, it’s the only way we learn *Sips Tea*

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