Pepe

(he/him)

When I was 15, the local media of Uganda outed a group of students my age for being gay, based solely on suspicion. This sparked anger inside me and I wrote an article pointing out that this would rob these students of a deserved education, affecting all of them for the rest of their lives. To my shock, shared by many readers, my rant (article) was published in a weekly teen newspaper pull-out called “Straight Talk.” This, to me, was my ushering into activism.

In my early 20s, I began to come across people like me. They told stories about rape, about their parents refusing to pay school fees, being kicked out of school and ending up homeless. We began to spend most of our time together in bars, and staying away from our homes.

We began to meet at a particular bar to support each other. When an article in a tabloid outed our spot as a lesbian bar, we decided to launch our meetings in a support group, inviting anyone who needed support to come along. In just a year’s time, the support group evolved into an organization, Freedom and Roam Uganda.

We began to search the Internet for information about running an organization and looking for resources to support rape victims and survivors. I borrowed a copy of the Ugandan Constitution and looked for solutions therein. We needed lawyers. We needed doctors. But, none were willing to take on the issues we brought forth. I decided that changing this narrative of helplessness, insecurity, and vulnerability would be my life goal. I felt I couldn’t sit home enjoying the support of my family, while my peers could not have the same, simply because they were either suspected to be gay or lesbian or queer. We began to create visibility through telling our stories on radio talk shows and in articles. These came at a high cost. Tabloids began to out people suspected of being be homosexual.

At this point I felt working in the background was not enough. I shared with my family that I was pursuing activism professionally and that I was going to work with Sexual Minorities Uganda, an organization aiming to liberate LGBTI persons in my country. When one of my uncles heard what he referred to as “this nonsense,” he bought me an airline ticket to leave the country. He wasn’t ashamed of me; he was afraid activism would get me killed. Regardless of his concern, this is an offer I never regret declining.

But, he was right. My life was, and still is, constantly in danger because of the work I do. I have become a public figure as a community organizer and advocate. It has attracted physical attacks, threats of murder and rape, rejection of housing, restriction of movement and several police detentions. Consistently speaking out has brought my name and my sexuality into living rooms across Uganda and brought my country into the spotlight. Now, the international community knows my name. In my case and for many other public activists, there’s a danger in speaking out, but at the same time, our public recognition provides a level of protection and privilege that others working on the frontlines don’t get.

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people.

Drew (he/him)

Every time Drew leaves his house, he has to mentally and emotionally prepare himself for the backlash from society.

#blacklivesmatter #blackstoriesmatter #defendblacklives

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people. Whether I’m the one who initiated the meeting or not, the entire conversation will be directed toward my white counterparts, with an occasional glance in my direction to acknowledge I’m in the room.

As soon as I leave my home, I walk around bracing myself, as if I’m about to get hit by Mike Tyson. I have to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for society’s continual blows – people looking, acting, and speaking to me as if I don’t belong. I wonder if it’s just me or if I’ve inherited PTSD from the trauma passed down from my ancestors, from slavery — steeped in my genes and part of my DNA? Or am I just paranoid? I ask myself these questions every day as I prepare for the inevitable.

Someone will ignore me while I’m patiently waiting in line. I’ll have that stupid smirk on my face; I won’t be able to speak up and say, “excuse me” or else I’ll be looked at as overly aggressive and labeled “The Angry Black Man!”

I’ll walk into a room filled with white people. Whether I’m the one who initiated the meeting or not, the entire conversation will be directed toward my white counterparts, with an occasional glance in my direction to acknowledge I’m in the room.

I’ll graciously hold the door open for a white person, and they’ll look at me as if that’s what I’m supposed to do. There is no “Thank you.” They’ll just continue walking.

I’ll drive the speed limit as I always do. The person behind me will be in a rush. I’ll pull over to let them pass, and they’ll roll down their window and shout, “Stupid Nigger!” Then speed off.

So I’ll ask again: Is it me? Am I just paranoid, or does society conspire against blacks? Are white people taught to be racist and are blacks taught to question and hate themselves and each other?

Want More Black Stories Matter Content?
Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.

Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches this fall. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE

Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.

Share: TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.

Learn: Resources for anti-racism activism

Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

Callie (she/her)

Thinking back over her own difficult journey with their racial identity, Callie ponders the question, “How can I help my daughter feel proud of her own blackness?’

#blacklivesmatter #blackstoriesmatter #defendblacklives

I hated black people for a while. I felt they judged me for being me. And I was trying so hard to figure out who I was. Did I need hoop earrings and air force ones to be black? Did I have to to do my hair and nails? Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

My 9-year-old daughter recently said to me, “I wish I could be a beautiful black woman, Mommy.” She’s very fair, and I often feel guilty at how relieved I am that she can, “pass.” I want her to be a proud black woman, but I also don’t want her to suffer through what I went through as a black girl, and woman, not fitting in.

I moved to Wilton, CT, an all white town, when I was 8. On my first day of fourth grade, a boy on the bus called me a nigger. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew it was bad. I told my principal, and he was appalled. His response – have me teach the school about Kwanzaa. He wanted me to explain different holidays from “my culture” to a school full of white people. I didn’t even celebrate Kwanzaa.

What was it like being the only black kid? Well, for starters, every day people told me I wasn’t really black. As far as they were concerned, black people were “gangsta” or spoke in ebonics, listened to rap music and wore hoop earrings. My whole life, everyone I knew, convinced me that I wasn’t one of those “homegirls”. They mocked ethnic names, and talked about the “hood”. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t black either. My mother only had white friends. I only had white friends.

People thought I wasn’t black because I wasn’t that hoop-wearing homegirl. I began to believe that, too. I wasn’t black. I wasn’t white. What was I? I tried so hard to be “white.” I began to hate BET. I wore bell-bottoms and tie-dyes, listened to The Grateful Dead and The Beatles, while still being followed in stores.

When The ABC Kids, nine black boys from inner-cities, came to my high school, suddenly, everyone assumed they would be my best friends. But, they mocked me. The same things that made the white people accept me, separated me from the black people I finally had an opportunity to interact with. The black boys hated me because I was a poser. I wasn’t black. I wasn’t white. But, who was I?

I hated black people for a while. I felt they judged me for being me. And I was trying so hard to figure out who I was. Did I need hoop earrings and air force ones to be black? Did I have to to do my hair and nails? Why couldn’t I be black and be the true me?

Now, many years later, I’m an activist and an organizer for social justice. As a leader, my job is to call people in and help them understand institutionalized or systemic racism. I can do that. I can use my voice and position of power to explain to white people how offensive or hurtful they are. I can explain that their privilege is more than not being called a nigger. It’s feeling safe when going to doctors who aren’t racist toward them. It’s knowing teachers aren’t racist towards their children. I can explain hard things, lead marches, scream into a megaphone, train young leaders and work to create change. And while it’s a challenge, I’m capable of doing these things.

What I don’t know how to do is make my daughter proud of her blackness. How do I make her proud while simultaneously trying to protect her from being pulled over in parking lots and followed in stores? I’m not sure. I guess I still don’t know what being black means, so how do I teach my daughters?

Want More Black Stories Matter Content?
Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.

Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches this fall. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE

Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.

Share: TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.

Learn: Resources for anti-racism activism

Jordan

My Blackness has come to mean my power. I walk into a room, and everybody notices my beautiful melanin-rich skin. The white folks try to impress me with their knowledge of shoes or basketball, both topics I know nothing about, but regardless they seek my approval. They are astounded by how my hair defies gravity and resembles the texture of the bushes and trees that make up our extended family, my skin the tree bark. Mother Earth is a Black Woman. The sun kissed me when I was born, and I am reminded every day it will never hurt me. My culture is magnetic. It’s irresistible. It brings out the true expression within all of us. My Blackness is stylish. It corresponds with all the latest trends and fads of the time. I woke up like this. My Blackness is resilient. My Black don’t crack. Like fine wine I look better with age, the fierceness of my glow grows stronger with every decade, as my people’s impact on the world gets stronger every century. My Blackness is Love. Just like when the passion bubbles up inside and comes bursting out, I cannot hide my Blackness. Some embrace it, others run away from it, not because it is inherently good or bad, but because it is powerful. My Blackness is nurturing. My Blackness is real. My Blackness tells a truth that some cannot handle. My Blackness is beautiful and never ceases to amaze me.

Lovett

(he/him)

I went away for a long weekend to a small Pennsylvania town this past President’s Day weekend. I was aware of the fact, but had not given it much thought, that this part of the state heavily favored Donald Trump. As I waited at a pedestrian crosswalk for the walk signal, an older gentleman and his acquaintances walked up behind me. He began to talk loudly as if he wanted me to hear exactly what he had to say. Out of nowhere, he went on to say that President Obama was the worst eight-year president in the history of our country. It was as if he was trying to get a rise out of me. I immediately realized his intent and decided to ignore him. Nothing good could come from engaging. I had forgotten that encounter by the time my date and I decided to visit a local eatery. We walked in and took a seat, but for 20 minutes we were ignored by the staff. Finally, my date had enough and demanded we leave to preserve our dignity. If you are white, imagine how you would feel when you go to another country and you realize that your appearance is different and you stand out. You know you must be on guard for all kinds of potential problems, and rightfully so. That can be extremely stressful. Now imagine you have to feel this way in your own country for much of your life! Imagine the damage it does to you.

Erica

(she/her)

Once, when I was 13, I attended a dinner. It didn’t resemble the types of dinner parties I found myself attending those days. I assumed an extravagant meal of fine preparations, as usual. This time was different. We gathered that evening to share an experience, a memorial to a man who had connected us all. Tonight he was missing. I was seated among family at a table, elongated by the addition of another slightly shorter table, both covered by white tablecloths. Seated at the shorter of the two tables, I was crowded in with my first cousins. At the adult table sat the Aunts, the Uncles and my dear parents. Youth of this family were about to embark on a unique, effective and unforgettable learning experience. The table wasn’t adorned with silver flatware, the prepared meal wasn’t served on fine china, and we weren’t making toasts with crystal glasses. Instead, in front of us were tin pie pans for meal placement and assorted repurposed glass mayonnaise jars for drinking. The meal consisted of the less desirable cube steak as the main fare–the kind of meal my grandfather and his family ate many years ago, strained within their means. That evening we celebrated the life of my grandfather, Pops. In one another’s company we laughed and shared stories striking bittersweet emotions, gathered in love as his offspring had done so many times in their youth. A new generation, now awakened in and by love.

Rachel

Whenever I apply for something online or over the phone, like a job or a school, the first thing I wonder when the communication ends, and ends well, is: “Oh, dear. Do they know I’m black?” I mean, did I type or speak too code-switched? I mean, maybe it’s just me, but…I don’t wake up black. I don’t yawn and roll out of my bed a fully-actualized, weight-of-history-and-slavery-and-disenfranchisement-and-oppression-and-racism’s-continuing-drain-on-American-society, black African-American. (That shit doesn’t happen till at least after I’ve brushed my teeth. And usually, not til I step out my front door.) So, will I go for the official interview and be greeted with wide, perplexed blue eyes because I’m just so darned—as my mother’s generation puts it—tall? Because it’s pretty much like I said: I’m not black sitting at home in bed. When I step out the door is a different story. One that starts and ends with my skin, as far as the world-at-large is concerned. Unsurprisingly, I tend to prefer phone interviews to in-person ones. Even if I have to ask myself that question: Do they know I’m black? And I always ask it. And a lot of times, on the heels of it: Do I?

Micah

(he/him)

Can I touch your hair? Is your beard real? Can I take a photo with you? Dude, you’re so cool! Especially the drunk white chick or the group of dudes in the bar that just can’t control themselves. This is also how some white people see me. Or rather, how they don’t see me, but rather some idea or figment of me. Depending on how I was wearing my hair, I have been told I was Indian, Spanish, Rastafarian –“Ja Rastafari”– Ethiopian — praising Haile Selassie. Muslim — “assalam o alaikum” — or some form of Jewish, often sephardic. Or they simply call out the name in their head so that they can fit me into the proper slot in their mental filing cabinet — Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Be Real, that guy from LMFAO, that guy from TV on The Radio, Reggie Watts, that guy in that commercial, or as the Dominican Republic likes to call me, Osama Bin Laden. Those are just a few. The thing about being black is that it is as open as anything. By being me, I am being black and thus the definition of being black is expanded. There is no way to be black. I just am black. I am also just me. I don’t speak for all black people. If I say yes to you touching my hair, you would be a fool to assume that that means we are all ok with you touching our hair — I can assure that is not the case.

Dara

(she/her)

Once, in Portland, Maine, a skinny white boy in grubby clothes calls me ‘nigger.’ He waits until we pass each other on the street to hurl the insult at my back. Amazed, I turn around to stare at his receding form. The intent of this word is clear, to diminish my value and cut me down to size, but I feel no such effect. I laugh to myself or possibly out loud. I’m thinking of how my mother, over all the years of our bitter arguments and prickly standoffs, managed to pour so much of her fighting spirit into me – instructions in a kind of pride I’d often found exaggerated –– all so that I’d be able to withstand exactly this encounter.

Tameka

(she/her)

When this picture was taken, I was 16. A teacher/mentor had taken me and another student on a trip to New Orleans to work with other students on a peace project. She had a friend who owned a boat – a black man. He took us to pick out bait, taught us how to bait the fishing line and took us out on the bayou to fish. I remember all the “dawnings” I had that day. It dawned on me that I now knew a black man that owned a boat. It dawned on me that being out of the projects and out in nature was restoring me, making me a different person than all the persons I knew, that I was getting something lots of people I knew would never get. It dawned on me that trying new things – catching the beautiful trout on my first time fishing – was improving my self esteem. That my smile was the widest it had ever been, fueled by the hope and joy of self discovery and a broadened sense of what was possible for me. Its been 26 years since that picture was taken. I’m a privileged girl. I have lived a lot of my dreams. But it’s been immeasurably harder than I thought it would be all those years ago, in so many ways. I pull this picture out when I need to remember the confidence and clarity of purpose I’d found that day.