Exhausted (adjective).
Meaning. To be drained of one’s physical or mental resources; very tired.
Use it in a sentence. “I am exhausted.”
It was 1986 when my family moved to Simi Valley, California— a quiet suburban town just beyond Los Angeles city lines. Picture rolling hills, rock-laden mountains, hiking trails and crisp clean air. For many years, it was lauded as one of America’s safest cities; most likely due to it being the home of numerous active and retired LAPD officers. It was also the first and only place I’d see a Klansman in real life and it would later be known as the infamous home of the Rodney King trial. So, I guess it’s safe to say, that the city had a bit of a racist undertone. This is why it should have been no surprise, that at 9 years old, the town I called home would be where I was told that my blackness was problematic—I would carry this as a permanent weight on my shoulders for the next 34 years of my life.
It's interesting what you can recall from your childhood. Usually those memories consist of happy times and the most impressionable moments. One particular memory I have, is my early days at school in Simi. There were children huddled around in curiosity wanting to get to know me. Then one states that my dad must be either a drug dealer or a professional athlete, because that was the only way I could afford to be at that school. The tone, inflection and nastiness all showed that this little white child found truth in this perception. It was clearly something they'd been taught; but now, it was owned, wholeheartedly by them. I'd learn later in life that this kind of behavior was called a microaggression; and that it would be just one of many times I'd experience such questioning. That I would be asked to justify my occupancy within spaces predominately occupied by white people. Spaces where Blacks didn't usually belong.
But even as a child, I knew this type of questioning was wrong.
So, I threw my head back and confidently stated that my dad was an engineer and my mom worked for a company that built rocket engines. And these same children confidently made my life a living hell for the remainder of my years in Elementary School. Regardless of the pep talks or the confidence my parents were building in me, I was still hurt. These scars would push me to develop an armor I would use to protect myself in white spaces. An armor I kept up until recently. After watching and re-watching videos of the terrible killings of Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd and countless others; something began to feel different within me. A sadness, a seething anger—but mostly disappointment, that I forced myself to sit in discomfort while allowing others to remain comfortable and unaffected by the pain they caused me. And after seeing the streets swell with protesters, I knew I wasn't alone, and decided that there was no better time than now to reclaim my voice.
I recently explained to a white friend of mine, that being Black is having to be self-aware at all times and it is utterly exhausting. Every place you go you inadvertently scan the space to see if you are in the majority or minority; if you can relax and be yourself, or if you need to be on alert. And within predominately white spaces where you may be unknown, you spend a lot of time being extra nice, giving a pass to people who make insensitive comments like calling everything “ghetto”, explaining your presence (what you do, where you come from, how you’re connected) and keeping your emotions in check. And let’s not even talk about the never-ending list of “I can’t” or I shouldn’t” that overtakes daily interactions:
I can’t show too much emotion, especially negative ones.
I can’t share anything personal, because it will be used against me.
I shouldn’t be too aggressive, too loud or too quiet.
I can’t make a scene anywhere or I’m a threat.
I can’t put my hands in or near my pockets or purse while shopping.
I shouldn’t wear my hair too ethnic at that first client meeting.
I can’t relax at work. I must overachieve to BE recognizeD.
I can’t, under any circumstance, be as outspoken as any white child, man or woman because that behavior could get me punished, fired, hurt or killed.
I shouldn’t, in white spaces, ever be too Black.
Let’s be honest. This is unnecessary behavior. Or at least it should be. And I will admit, I believe part of that armor I built up as a child, created an over-tolerance in me that did more harm emotionally, than good. But what I have learned by reading recent stories and posts is that I’m not alone in this; and that these rules of engagement have been used by even the strongest, most unapologetically Black people as a means of survival within spaces that don’t look like us. And that even when you bring your own seat to the table, get a seat at the table or build your own table, you still occasionally find yourself reverting back in order to clear the occasional hurdles still being thrown in your path.
Right now, history is trying to repeat itself. Black people, and other people of color are being weaponized in an effort to breed white fear, and microaggressive behavior is being captured and called out everywhere. We are bombarded by constant news cycles and social media posts with images of Black and Brown lives being unjustly taken, discarded and mistreated; as well as, images of streets filled with protestors and clouds of tear gas. We are left feeling both hopeless and hopeful at the same time. So it is moments like this that I remind myself of a quote from Angela Davis that says, “I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.” It is on me to not be discouraged and to fight for my right to live while Black—unafraid, with purpose, as a child of God and in full color; regardless of how it makes others feel.
Like I said in the beginning. I, am exhausted. But like others before me and those who will come long after me; I will push through that exhaustion to de-weaponize people of color. I will push through that exhaustion to be the best me possible; and I will push through that exhaustion to create change for a better future for ALL people.
I will be, unapologetically Black in white. #iAMaRewriter
Written By: Michelle Davis
“The LORD is my light and my salvation-- whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life-- of whom shall I be afraid? When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall.”
Psalm 27:1
ABOUT
Michelle Davis is a marketer, inventor and budding writer.
As an English major, Michelle has always had a soft spot for writing—often penning stories only for her personal consumption. Through her career as a marketer in entertainment and tech, she not only developed a multi-faceted background in business; but was able to travel extensively; giving her face-to-face experiences that further fueled her writing and interests.
Michelle grew up in suburban California, with stints living in Florida, New York, Santa Barbara, CA and San Francisco, CA. Each contributing to a deeper interest in socioeconomics, women’s issues and race.
The title “Black in white” denotes the experience of Black people who exist in predominately white spaces. It analyzes the constant pressure placed upon Black people to alter themselves in order to create white comfort. Yet, it also celebrates the radical and defiant work of self-discovery and liberation from these cycles.
Find her on Instagram: @michelledenese
“I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change.
I am changing the things I cannot accept.”