Long before we even landed in Canada, fitting in had made it onto the top of my worries. Having to speak in English wherever I went was nerve wracking but that wasn’t what kept me anxious as we flew here. I had never been so conscious of my black skin as I was upon landing. Racism wasn’t new to me, it’s something that I had lived with, my parents being refugees and all, back in Malawi where I was born. I’m afraid I had already learnt how to make up stories when someone questioned my identity, always ready to defend myself lest I become an outsider. My worry was fed by the reality of being among White people, people who I had come to view as “educated” and “polished” as though it takes one’s race to be knowledgeable and of manners. I can’t really recall the moment when I adopted the view that these were people I should bow down to, easily convinced that acceptance and belonging would come from putting down my identity. Maybe them having snow was part of it, it was something I considered cool and I was excited about finally getting to experience winter.
When school started, I was horrified to see that the Black kids in my school were the loudest, blocking the hallways and being the trouble makers. The idea was, at least at the time, if you were Black you had to avoid sticking out your neck. I had this need to be good, so that the freedom which I was granted wouldn’t be revoked and unfortunately I held others sharing my skin colour to the same standard as well. It sounds absurd now but indeed that’s how I really felt. It was easier in Malawi, we were all Black, blending in was easier.
Although I never came to appreciate some of the Black kids’ characters in school, I learnt to judge them for what they were, differences in personality. The diversity in the school became a source of comfort. When I spoke to others I didn’t need to feel insecure about my pronunciation, those who were becoming my friends were immigrants too and they had their own accents that no one was calling them out on. In the cafeteria I didn’t have to worry about my food being unusual, when we all had our containers out, the variety in the food made us equal. I came to acknowledge that a Black person standing out was no crime, if they had done no wrong then they deserved the stage. Yes after 7 years I still can’t speak English perfectly but knowing the language, this is already me making an effort. I am first and foremost human, Black is an identity I can stand tall with.
Kids Help Phone (KHP) is honoured to share creative content submitted by youth from coast to coast to coast as they Feel Out Loud with us. We thank the Feel Out Loud Community Creator of this piece for their contribution to youth mental health and well-being in Canada. For more information on the Feel Out Loud Community Creator Space and / or how you can submit your own creative content for possible publication, you can visit the submission page.
