19 Years

Column by Somnia Keesey

19 years.

That is how long that it has taken me to see how different I truly am.

All throughout elementary school, middle school and even high school, I thought that my differences were not that noticeable. I tried my best to fit in. I tried to fight through the stares given by my classmates during the lessons on slavery. I tried my best to ignore that I was the only person of color in every single class.

I ignored it when my white classmates said the n-word. I ignored the subtle racism perpetuated by my peers and educators. I even ignored the blatant racism. I wanted to fit in, so I looked away. For 19 years, I tried to convince myself,

"I am not different. I can fit in."

So I continued. I watched how I talked, in fear of getting called “ghetto”. I changed how I dressed to fit in with the aesthetics I knew were acceptable. I sang along to the songs I knew would be played at my local music festival. Those carefree songs about traveling to Colorado with nothing but the clothes on your back and a mandolin guitar. I reserved my playlists full of Ms. Lauryn Hill, Kanye and Kendrick to be enjoyed in private. Songs about the black experience and struggles just didn't fit into the narrative I tried so hard to mold myself into. I continued to try and convince myself,

"I am not different. I can fit in."

Little did I know that nothing could erase my fear when getting stopped by the police. As the officer steps out of their car to approach my window, my mind races to remember the steps that my mother had drilled into me at a young age:

Keep your hands visible at all times.

Explain your actions to the officer clearly.

Keep your movements slow.

Don’t argue with the officer.

Don’t resist.

Don’t give them an excuse to kill you.

And as I slowly roll my window down as the officer approaches my car, my heart beating faster with each step they take, I now think to myself,

"I am very different."

The police would not care about my clothes from PacSun or my playlist shuffling the new Lumineers album. All they would see is my skin color, and that is all that matters.

For my whole life, I tried so hard to hide a part of myself, to attempt to adapt, so maybe I could avoid being the one that's different. To avoid being a stereotype. To avoid all of the negative connotations that came with being black.

But there was nothing that I could do to erase the pigment of my skin. No matter how much adapting I would try to do, it would never erase the fact that my skin color presents itself as a weapon to some people. That I had to have chaperones walk me to concession stands during away football games for my safety. That I got called a slave in elementary school. That my fellow black friends get called niggers.

Nothing would be able to change that fact.

Now, as I have grown and moved on from high school, I have started to fully grow into the person that I want to be. Not conforming to what I deemed was acceptable by my white peers. But, that fear is still and will always be a constant in my mind.

This is not the time for my white peers to exclaim to me that they don't see color, because that is the exact opposite of what I want you to do. I want you to see my blackness and recognize that my experience is dramatically different than yours. That the way I perceive life is through a lens that you will never be able to look through and fully understand.

I am not asking for you to feel bad, either. I am asking you to recognize that the way I go through life is significantly different than how you do.

George Floyd was a victim of the harsh reality that so many black Americans face in today's society. Actually, a reality that they have faced for hundreds of years. And this is unacceptable.

Action and change needs to happen now, and it all starts with us recognizing and listening to one another.

I don't want my future children to have to face the same fears that I do. This cannot continue. Speak up, protest, write, investigate, learn, educate, anything. This. Cannot. Continue.

And as I reflect back on my life—thinking about my future, about how unbelievable this all seems—I think to myself: 19 years.

After all of this time, I have finally come to the conclusion that,

"I am different. But I shouldn’t be killed because of it."