Last semester, I took an African American Studies Class called “The Philosophy of Race.” I’m glad I took the class – it offered me a new perspective and insight into the enslavement of black people in the United States and the current condition of black Americans. I read the best works of black literary giants such as Baldwin, DuBois, and Morrison, but I also read dense literature full of nominalizations and abstractions, intent on disguising radical assumptions in academic language.
All in all, I learned – but I found myself unable to truly relate. I couldn’t place myself in the position of a black American slave; I couldn’t feel the lashes against my back or the shackles around my wrists. I certainly couldn’t embrace the moral nihilism espoused by the Afro-pessimist tradition. The course material characterized the present black experience as inextricably linked to the sin of slavery, but my personal experience felt so detached from it.
When I walked into Robertson 100 for the first lecture, I hoped to receive answers to my many questions about the nature of blackness. As the semester ends, I’m leaving with even more questions than I had at the start. I was black. I am black. But am I really? How can I belong to that category, so marked by a sense of oppression and subjugation, pain, plight, and inferiority? After all, I come from a middle-class home. My parents paid my tuition and bought me my dream car for my 16th birthday. How can that belong to the academic and adversity-focused conception of blackness?
The course material characterized the present black experience as inextricably linked to the sin of slavery, but my personal experience felt so detached from it.”
I grew up in a household where drive and hard work were emphasized, not a sense of despondency and stagnation. My mom and dad came to the United States from Nigeria at the ages of 16 and 18, respectively, with nothing but hope and the determination to work hard. They chose not to believe those who told them they could not succeed. They overlooked jeers about the darkness of their skin, tuned out insults about their accents, neglected external doubt, and conjured up a powerful self-confidence.
For years, I’ve struggled with the physical reality of my identity and what it means to be ‘African American,’ and this course prompted me to reflect even further on that struggle. I recall my time in grade school when I was plagued by insecurity. My earliest memories are of being told my skin was too dark, and that my nose and lips were too big. Kids hurtfully poked fun at my name Osamede (Oh-sah-meh-day), and referred to me as Osama Bin Laden instead. They told me my hairstyles were ugly and denigrated my Nigerian food.
Interestingly, none of those insults came from white students (though they had their own biases); instead, they came from African American students. To this day, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was internalized racism. Perhaps they mimicked the xenophobic speech they heard in their homes. Or, perhaps they were just bullies.
Regardless of the answer, I’m not too surprised that the black kids were the ones who bullied other black kids. Hurt people hurt others to deflect their own pain. I was more surprised by the extent to which white students left me alone or, in some cases, initiated friendships with me. How is it that these white students (supposedly products and conduits of racism) treated me with kindness and dignity when my ‘fellow’ black students did not?
The white kids never told me that my hair wasn’t blonde enough or that my eyes weren’t blue enough. They never said I was stupid because I was black, or that I didn’t belong in the gifted programs I was enrolled in for all my schooling. I was, however, told by black students that my shoes, the ones that were well within my parents’ budget, were unstylish and made me look poor. I vividly remember the era when KD sneakers were popular among the black groups in my school; it seemed that all of my black peers were somehow wearing these expensive accessories.
The trend reflected a broader ‘sneaker culture’ that emerged from the amalgamation of basketball and fashion since the Air Jordan launch in 1985. Unfortunately for my social status, I wasn’t brought up in a cultural context that would facilitate my fitting in with the black community in that way.
I remember being told I talked too white because I didn’t use African American Vernacular English. Why would I, and how could I? I didn’t hear it in my home or in the African church I attended. How was I supposed to know I was meant to speak a certain way simply because I was black? And how was I to adopt this dialect so late in my development?
“If blackness is irrevocably slaveness, as the Afro-pessimist movement contends, and I am not a descendant of slaves, am I black? Am I something else? Am I still a victim?”
In the Western world, we tend to refer to black people as a monolith. Black people are oppressed and at a socioeconomic disadvantage; black people are afforded fewer opportunities; black people are victims. To some extent, that perspective has validity.
I am a black woman. When I walk into a class at Princeton, or into a grocery store, or an airport, or my church, people don’t look at me and distinguish me from African American descendants of slaves. They don’t narrow their focus to my high cheekbones and assume my Nigerian heritage. They don’t differentiate the melanated fibers on my head from those of any other dark-skinned American. They see black. And based on their perception of black, they may see inferior. Or stupid. Or undeserving. Or ghetto. Or uneducated. Or poor. Or victim.
Yet black individuals vary in many ways: Nigerian Americans, for instance, have a median household income above the American average. Not all black people are poor. Nor are all black people uneducated. Twenty-nine percent of the Nigerian diaspora ages 25 and above hold a master’s degree, Ph.D., or an advanced professional degree, compared to 11% of the U.S. population overall.
Having experienced the height of corruption in West African law enforcement, Nigerian immigrants trust American police far more than their ADOS (American Descendants of Slaves) counterparts. Not all black people want to defund the police.
So what is my identity? If blackness is irrevocably slaveness, as the Afro-pessimist movement contends, and I am not a descendant of slaves, am I black? Am I something else? Am I still a victim? Am I allowed to feel culturally appropriated when African Americans consume Nigerian cuisine for social credit and Tik Tok views?
It’s easy to see oneself as a victim when popular culture compels you to perceive society through the lens of historical atrocity and pessimism. But when I think critically and assess the reality of my situation, I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of sitting in a classroom filled with intelligent and privileged black scholars at the highest-ranked university in this country, complaining about our positions in society.
I tend to doubt that one’s lived experience is a direct product of race, or at least a product of race alone. One’s lived experience can be communicated in such a way that it satisfies mainstream racial stereotypes (especially those highlighting the prolonged oppression of historically marginalized groups). Through the popular (reductionist) racialized lens, the poorest white people are perpetually more privileged than black people because their skin color offers them nameless, shapeless opportunities that must be acknowledged but never seen.
“I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of sitting in a classroom filled with intelligent and privileged black scholars at the highest-ranked university in this country, complaining about our positions in society.”
Meanwhile, the success of black billionaires like Kanye West is attributed to luck: he’s an exception. And when he makes blatantly racist and antisemitic comments, we may not refer to him as racist because he doesn’t meet the requirements of having power that necessitate one’s characterization as racist – despite being one of the wealthiest Americans, having a personal relationship with a former President, and controlling much of the music and fashion industry. But the poor, white homeless men I encounter not too far outside of Princeton somehow possess this power and thus deserve the perennial title of “racist.” Perhaps “blackness” describes an ideological state more than a physical one.
Racism exists. It is alive and well. I am in no way attempting to deny that fact. But it is not all-encompassing; it does not pervade every aspect of our lives. When I stopped perceiving every ill-mannered peer as racist and started realizing that perhaps they were simply rude – to people of all races and sizes and temperaments – I was able to reorient myself from a position of victimhood to one of power and agency. Once I stopped assuming the racism of all white people, I could acknowledge the beauty of others, distinct from racial stereotypes and identity politics.
I opened my eyes to the kindness and benevolence that exists through all facets of life when you choose to see it. When you don’t put every non-ideal behavior in the category of racism, you can see racism for what it is and call it out when it truly occurs. Too often do we forsake nuance and call any unfriendly or distasteful act racist, which makes it harder to sense the weight of actual racism.
Interestingly, “The Philosophy of Race” has been one of my favorite Princeton courses. It has forced me to confront my biases and sift through my identity to discover how my appearance influences who I am. My philosophy of race is that it is a socially constructed and tribalistic way we organize ourselves in society. Too many black scholars choose not to move forward because to do so would be to forfeit the social capital associated with victimhood and the outpouring of rage linked to dwelling on historical tragedy.
James Baldwin wrote in one of the assigned readings, The Fire Next Time, “Colour is not a human or personal reality; it is a political reality.”Accordingly, to internalize and accept victimhood as your reality is to reproduce and wear a political label created to keep down the enslaved. The freedom fighters for racial justice fought to disentangle our color from our personhood, and we must continue to fight, clearing the path for the next generation.
The above is an opinion contribution and reflects the author’s views alone.
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