*Subjectivity/ies is used in the sense that WEB Du Bois conceptualized it: a perception and understanding of self- whether by one's own self or as they are perceived by those around them.
Written on April 1, 2022 (11:45pm)
Oh, the places you’ll go…where are they?
On feeling like a hypocrite...
Why did I come here? Why, after talking incessantly about how “insanely passionate” I am about African history, do I not feel like I’ve substantially expanded the horizons of my knowledge despite the steps I’ve taken so far? Why am I embarrassed, still about what I (don’t) know or am currently learning?
On being an African abroad...
All I’ve wanted for the past five years was to study African history. I’ve been reading more African historical fiction, engaged increasingly with more scholarly work written and produced by Africans, forced myself to confront the scariest parts of who I am that have berated the places and people I feel so deeply attached to now.
I’ve cried because I’m overwhelmed by the “Blackness” I experience in this country. I thought I was prepared. I thought I could handle it because I’d been “Black”. But it’s exhausting to have subjectivities that are so misrepresentative of who you understand yourself to be surrounding you. I don’t feel politically black here and feel out of place in gatherings that celebrate the US and African diaspora “Black identity”. It’s just not me. At least I don’t think it is. I can name so many instances from my first week on campus, to the first class I attended. A rude awakening of the displacement and disillusionment I’d be faced to reckon with- that I am still forced to reckon with. I sit here, tear-streaked and frustrated because I am in a place that I should feel only gratitude to exist in. and I do. I know I am forever indebted to my parents not only for their support, but for believing in me enough to make what Brown told us is an “investment”. Brown's financial aid office made it perfectly clear to us the cost of being here. But this cost has exceeded my expectations in so many ways. The monetary costs of course feel monumental sometimes and I don’t always feel deserving of the support my parents are giving me to be here.
And then there’s the mental and emotional burden. Of being away from home, of feeling constantly transient, of trying to validate my being here.
It’s been a year and I can still remember with such clarity, the shock, joy and then deep confusion and anger that Brown had accepted me. I still don’t completely understand, As stupid and ridiculous as it may sound, I still feel like I need to prove why I belong here to myself because I know in my heart that I am not as special as a ‘5%’ acceptance rate. It’s just not how I see myself.
But I digress, being Black here has been challenging in unexpected ways. From contending with degrading portrayals in classrooms and textbooks and articles and books and chapters and film and music and poetry. Everyday, the alleged inferiority of the Black person is imposed upon me–but that’s what happens when all your classes examine society. Directly, I’ve experienced it in some interactions with professors and indirectly through my course material. Everyday in the past and current semesters, I have been confronted with degrading, power-stripping projections of Black and African individuals. These two things are not the same and I feel further encouraged to fiercely assert it. They. Are. Not. The. Same.
Everyday for the past two semesters I have absorbed Black and African suffering (in true Brown fashion, the engagement has been interdisciplinary and I’ve experienced this across SIX departments) Yep…six. :)) And I wonder why I’m wrecked and burnt out. The worst part for me is the extension of this suffering into spaces that are supposed to be havens of respite from the external subjectivity projected onto black bodies. But yet again, I am reminded of the violent pervasive and invasiveness of whiteness and consequently the internalizations of its subjectivity within Black communities. During what was supposed to be an evening celebrating the black community and individual, once again the defining identity of the Black person is their resilience in suffering and of course, a vivid recount (of course) of violent chattel slavery, coloured (pun intended) grotesquely with rich metaphors and analogies about how the Black body has had to and continues to endure being endlessly shattered and ground. That is what it’s like to be here. It’s made me cry several times because I’m weak in that way and cannot physically or emotionally take being confronted with my positionality as an African woman every second, of every day outside of the times I have allocated for it to happen- my classes. It has gotten to the point that I’m so emotionally fragile with barely any capacity to deal with my classes that I actually do not want to perceive this reality anymore. I don’t want to be alive in this way anymore not knowing why I want to do anything or having that feeling extinguished throughout the day when I feel like I’m closer to finding it.
Next, let’s deal with the hypocritical part of me that wants to “learn more and do better”. Pruning is my word of the year and a lot of it has been happening, actually. I am consciously breaking off bits and watering and nourishing others so they can bloom when I finally enter my developmental “spring”. It’s painful, the breaking off. For me, it has come in the form of internalizing a recognition of some of my unhealthy habits that drive me to become so obsessed with something/someone it consumes me entirely, becoming the source of my meaning and purpose. Cue…Formula 1 and Lewis Hamilton. They entered my life during a tumultuous time where I had to create goals for myself so I’d want to continue being alive, consciously choosing to breathe everyday. Lewis did that. I constructed a reality where he filled a gap I was too afraid to let bleed and heal myself. I didn’t even realize what had happened until the 2021 season where I could barely function when his weekends went awry. I know it sounds ridiculous, but you should have seen me; Riding waves of endorphins and dopamine when he won and crashing completely, unable to eat or get out of my bed to function when he didn’t. And so when the championship was so egregiously stolen from him in 2021, I shattered. So much inside of me broke and that’s when I truly realized what was going on- I was projecting an image of Black success on to him so I could convince myself it was possible for me too. But the goal post was shifted for him and suddenly...I couldn’t breathe and I cried again. Ranting to one of my friends I remember sniffling throughout, telling her I didn’t know what the purpose of my existence was after that race. For weeks I was distraught and even counted the days Lewis was silent. 55 days. I genuinely couldn’t recover because I’d bestowed so much significance upon Lewis’ successes and what they represented and meant to me.
Now, here I am. Overwhelmed once again by how little I know and amazed by my capacity to overthink. I’ve been told a ridiculous number of times that I put too much pressure on myself. I still don’t see it because I know this is isn't me at 100%. I'm still trying to find something to love deeply and be insanely amazing at. I want to wake up feeling charged and excited about breathing because I have meaning that I’ve constructed for myself. I know I enjoy learning so I expect to find some of this meaning in and through my academic engagements. I just hope that when I do, I’m ready to lean into that love and harness it into fuel. I’d like not to drown as I feel I am now. I want to be laying on my back in the knowledge and passion I’ll hopefully be able to sustain. I cannot accept a reality (imagined, constructed or lived) where I barely have my head above water and remain gasping in endless chilliness.
The next time I’m reminded of the places I’ll go, I’ll actually know what that means to me, and have a solid understanding of where the places are complete with a guide in hand on how to get there. Idealist? Yes. But that’s the only way I want to live. I want to retain hope for myself and a belief in the world I imagine can exist. UWC made me feel that way, Brown in some ways led me to let it fizzle out, but in others has fanned the flames with just as much fervor.
That’s some aspect of the construction of myself and my outlook approaching the end of year 1 of university.
Oh the places you’ll go…you’ll know where they are.
I wrote this essay when I was in a really bad headspace and couldn't get the help I wanted. I still haven't been able to get what help I think I need but I am feeling a lot better. Having Black skin and existing as a Black person can be so exhausting and it shouldn't be. I'm sharing this now only because I gaslit myself so much for a while before I could verbalize what I was experiencing so I wanted to share this, in case someone else is feeling the same way. It's not in your head and Black fatigue is a real thing.
x
- Jadynsweb