I Am Not Your Shield

You say you have Black children, as if we are shields against your own reflection

It is not often that I start writing a piece right after a conversation. However, I am activated, dysregulated, and writing is a release for me. Which is to stay, spilling it out on the screen, lessens the noise in my head. I had a conversation over the phone with my dad today. If you have not read some of my previous work, then you would not know that I was adopted from Haiti as a toddler, and that both of my parents are white. This does not always come up, but when it does, it is for good reason. What also needs to be said, is that I currently have blue hair. Blue braids in fact. To me they signify more than just a color. They are a symbol of boldness, culture, and self. While speaking with my father, I had mentioned that a job I had recently applied for decided to go with another candidate. Rejection is always hard. This was no exception. I felt defeated and was hoping to get encouragement from a place where some of your first supports are supposed to reside. Parents. He said “Don’t take this the wrong way, but they might not have given you the job because of your hair. To me your hair says insecurity.” This statement punched my eardrums with an emotional force I did not know was possible. My dad does not have to like my hair. But to say that the way I choose to express myself is the direct cause of my rejection activated my nervous system in a way that I knew would take a while to reverse. I replied with a statement that felt true and in alignment with how I feel. “That feels like an attack on my person.” My dad then got frustrated and responded with, “This is not a black and white issue. Is that the only straw you have to pick from? I am not prejudiced. I have (4) black children.” Believe me, the irony of his statement is not lost on me. In a previous post I wrote called Addressing My Melanin, I spoke about how I often feel as though my parents treat my skin color as a trophy. Awaiting on the shelf and barely noticed until they need to impress someone. Today, my fathers words showed me something even sharper. I am not only a trophy, I am a shield. An automatic armor of sorts. His belief that having black children automatically absolves him of prejudice is painfully tone deaf. He doubled down saying, “I’ve always liked your hair natural. He even brought up my older sister, recalling how he had a ‘problem’ whenever she would get braids as a child, claiming she would get an ‘attitude.’ I explained to my father that getting braids for us specifically makes us feel good about ourselves, and that my sister felt confident, and it might not have come out the right way as a child. Even if it did not, my dad should celebrate how we chose to embrace the complexity of our hair, How we chose to adapt something that can be so kinky and coily into something different. Not more beautiful. Just different. You say you have Black children, as if we are shields against your own reflection. I am not just black, but I will not deny that part of me either. Whether that be through the way I carry myself, my own experiences, or the ways I choose to wear my hair. Today’s conversation revealed a lot to me. These biases have reared their head before, but this time it was different. This time, I saw clearly how I am viewed as a safeguard. A way to signal to others as if to say “look at the color of their skin. I have no problems with it.” That’s not the truth though. People who aren’t prejudice rarely have to make it known. It is shown through actions. I will not be held out in front of others as a symbolism of your white saviorship. My braids are blue, and that is okay. Next week, I might rock my curly and natural hair. But always: braids are not insecurity. My blackness is not a defense.

I. Am. Not. Your. Shield.