A beach in Antigua and Barbuda
The country where I spent my childhood was lively, filled with pockets of joy hidden within nature: hot, sunny days spent walking to the beach; calypso beats echoing in my ears and through my limbs; sand in between my toes; the sticky residue of saltwater and mangoes still on my lips hours after leaving. The country where I spent my adolescence had similar blissful elements, just quieter and more nuanced than I would have liked them to be. It wasn’t until I became more knowledgeable about the complexity of the history and culture that lines the South Carolinian roads that I began to truly reconnect to myself and the places where I lived.
Growing up as a middle and high school student in the South, I frequently learned about topics like slavery and racism, but never felt like I fully identified with the struggles that Black Americans face today. Racism in Antigua and Barbuda was rarely talked about; the privilege that was rampant in our country wasn’t based on skin color, but rather on income, family background, and education level. In suburban South Carolina, though, it was impossible to ignore the lingering biases, prejudice, and racism that were in our classrooms, grocery stores, and workplaces.
I remember the first time I began to see this country, and the experiences of Black citizens of this country, through a clearer lens. It was a normal weekday, and my brother and I had just come home from school. My dad sat on the red couch we bought when we first moved here; it was sturdy enough to last us for eight years and my dad was determined for it to last the full ten-year warranty. He called me over to the living room, sat me down, and told me that it’s not easy to live in this country as a Black woman, especially one who was born in another country. He had to have an even more serious conversation with my younger brother: because he was a young Black man, and a smart one at that, he told him that people would simply hate him for no reason. He couldn’t do certain things that would “make him look guilty” because there were White cops out there who would shoot him in the head or unjustly arrest him for holding a brush the wrong way or standing too close to a White woman. No sooner was I made aware of racial prejudice and discrimination than I began to experience some of my own: “you’re actually really smart” or “you’re not really like them“—referring to other Black people.
( Musical artist H.E.R. sings “I Can’t Breathe” inspired by George Floyd’s death
I was scared, angry, and bitter that my brother and I were subjected to live in fear, anger, and bitterness simply because of the color of our skin and the texture of our hair. Why should we have to think twice about every action we take when other citizens of this country don’t have to? Are we not Americans too? Do we not deserve freedom as well? This jarring conversation birthed in me true compassion for other Americans, especially those who are minorities, and it was that compassion which led me to sympathize with their pain and seek to be more educated about, and intentionally involved in, those communities. However, I knew that if I wanted to make effective change in my community, I had to be educated about these topics and connected to others so I can spread my knowledge. Given the fact that I wasn’t going to receive comprehensive education from my high school, I had to receive it through the narratives and biographies of American minorities.
Collection of essays on Asian American experiences in America
Around that time, my passion for reading had been reawakened. No more was I whining about having to do summer reading during the fall, instead I was eagerly searching the Internet for books written by American minorities about their experiences. And then I found it: the book that so intricately explained almost every confusion I had about my identity and ethnic background, Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. As someone who knows what it feels like to have your identity so wrapped up in a country that you feel so far removed from—and the longing and disappointment you feel as a result—I deeply resonated with her story and that of other multiracial people in America. Minor Feelings written by Cathy Park Hong, a non-fiction book intended to inform Americans about Asian American history and narratives, gave me a wider perspective of the brutality, discrimination, and racism that Asian immigrants have received over the past few centuries. Through video essays, songs, and books produced by Black Americans about Black Americans, as well as my one-on-one interactions with people from different walks of life through local churches and community centers, I could see what life was like for American minorities living in America: full of hope, perseverance, and frustration. To put it simply, it was as if American minorities had been dealt a bad hand (in the eyes of society) and had to figure out how to make it work in their favor. As you can imagine, there is much strength, resolve, and bravery required to not drown under the weight of countless false assumptions and missed opportunities due to race, nationality, and ethnicity.
Spanish moss on South Carolinian trees
When I finally felt that I had a solid foundation of knowledge, I could start being creative about how to make a change in my community. I had always been the type of person that wanted to help others in whatever way I could. It started with helping my mom create posters for her classrooms, then spilled over into being a part of the leadership of community-related clubs at my high school, and now I find myself wanting to help on a larger scale. Realistically, no matter how much I learn, I can do close to nothing to stop American minorities from enduring the prejudice and bias they face almost every day in this country. Even so, I can strive to support and/or be a part of safe communities that help to raise awareness about these issues such as Mental Health in Melanin, Asian Student Association, Hispanic Latino Club, and United African Students here at CofC.
If there’s one thing that growing up in South Carolina has taught me, it is that some people are receptive and some people simply don’t want to learn. To make a real change, you need to be vulnerable, brave, and understanding to those who are willing to make a change too. Most importantly, I have learned that the country where I intend to spend my adulthood is not perfect. It seems like there are three rainy days for every moment of sunshine. Some days, slurs tend to echo in my ears and through my limbs more than calypso beats do. Yet, if you look close enough, underneath the moss in the bulky too-tall trees, there are still pockets of joy and fulfillment hidden within the communities that make my country what it is: nuanced, mixed, and beautiful.
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