I moved to the US toward the end of fall on a November day in 2002. I packed a suitcase and possibly two bags on a flight bound to John F. Kennedy International Airport in Queens NY. I had just recently graduated from a community college and a month earlier said goodbye to my first love who moved away to England. It was a particularly difficult time, because even though I lost one love, I was being reunited with another.
It was almost a year since my mother left. That was the longest we had ever been apart. We were stuck to the hip, so when she left, there was a gaping hole in my heart. She made the tough decision to move to the United States to start a new life. When she left, she promised that she would send for me and that we would see each other again soon. Well, she kept her word.
I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Unlike the many friends and family I knew whose parent(s) left them in the care of grandparents and other family members, only to reunite a decade or more as mere strangers, my mother left in my final year of completing my “A” Levels. I was quite capable of taking care of myself, but I still needed her financial support to finish my studies.
When I was done with school, I tried job hunting, but was unsuccessful. Even though at the time, my heart wasn’t into any of the professions that didn’t allow me to exercise my creativity, I knew I just needed to work. This was pre smart phones, and all the professional apps that are now available. Like anywhere in the world, it’s about who you know and I knew no one in any kind of position to help me land a job. So, in perfect timing, my mother sent a ticket and on that cold day in November, I landed at JFK.
I always say, "I never knew how black I was until I moved to to the United States." I say it with great humor, but it is really not a laughing matter. The land of opportunity, and milk and honey was about to teach me some major life lessons that I couldn’t possibly learn in my homeland.
My friends and I have acknowledged a West Indian upbringing will give you confidence in your yourself and your capabilities like no other. I am probably biased and should not generalize, but growing up in a society where most of the people looked like me, and where my personhood was not always being questioned at every turn was a confidence booster. Maybe it had more to do with my upbringing, rather than simply the community I grew up in. In spite of that, I wasn’t prepared for the way I would be received and perceived in the country I now call home.
The intersectionality of race, class and demographic matter so much more in the US. I am woman and black, minority and black, and immigrant and black. The common denominator is Black. The first time you’re confronted by the negative stereotypes associated with being a black woman, there is a degree of shock. You feel judged by a narrative that so many Black women do not identify with.
This is highly problematic. It does not assign us the full spectrum of emotions, diversity of interests and of thought. Here, being a black woman you’re seen as a monolith, and if you color outside the lines, you’re deemed a living breathing unicorn, even by your own.
No one cares if you grew up rich, poor or in between. We are assigned every negative attribute you can assign to a woman simply based on the richness of our melanin. The richer the melanin, the worse it gets. We are deemed to be “loud, ‘ghetto’ (ghetto is a place), too dark, too much, bitter, angry, aggressive, unladylike, a baby mama, rude, unattractive, unmarried, and/or existing to cash welfare checks.” We are collectively invalidated; a sordid reality that we are continuously viewed as the undesirables or against the norm.
Nothing new here to see people, but I questioned in my earlier years here, “How can Black women truly thrive in a society that consistently finds ways to minimize our existence from birth to death?” We are the undesirables of the undesirable, in spite of the fact that we are the desirable. If you know, you know.
I quickly realized we don’t have a choice, but to thrive. We always have and will continue to. From our ancestors to present day, black women have had to learn to rely on ourselves in so many aspects of our lives. This is both a trauma response and a realization that no one is coming to save us, even as we gather to heal while building community. We don’t always get that knight in shining armor and neither are we waiting.
As a group, we will continue to occupy space anywhere and everywhere we want to, even when we are not necessarily welcomed. We do not let closed doors stop us from pursuing our passions and dreams; we will find a window and squeeze through.
We are beauty. We are love. We are ambitious. We are healers and healing. We will continue to make lemonade out of lemons.