Being there when you can’t be there & other diaspora problems
Engaging with American Blackness from abroad.
Written by: Zahra Spencer
Art: Mafalda Maria Vasconcelos
Being born in beautiful, Black Barbados, I had a cringe-worthy level of naiveté when I first moved to Boston for school. When I started college, Obama was president, details of the Trayvon Martin case were still emerging and Instagram for Android was trash. The heightened level of global connectivity and awareness that accompanied the digital age was only just getting started, so living an entire ocean away, my perception of race relations in America went a little like this: slavery > segregation > Black power > Black president. Pain, progress then peace.
Now I don’t want to say that I discovered that I was Black by moving to America because that wouldn’t be true, but American-brand Blackness is very different from anywhere else in the world. The Caribbean, and I suspect many other newly independent Black states, has actively sought to cultivate a sense of nationhood through Black pride and consciousness. The history we learn is of the middle-passage, and we have statues commemorating leaders of slave revolts. Our heads of governments are Black — our doctors, accountants and law enforcement officials are also Black. This is not to idealize the Caribbean as some sort of Black utopia because we certainly have our own shit to come to terms with. But what I’m saying is that in a predominantly Black nation, it’s easy to not actively think about your Blackness every day.
I won’t bother to bore you with tales from my time in the US where I was shocked into understanding that my skin color meant something. It took me a while to realize that a lot of the discomfort and confusion I was feeling had to do with being Black, and simultaneously not recognizing that many people actually considered it a bad thing. I had no context for the incredibly nuanced, painful and circular journey of being Black in America.
By my junior year I knew I was going to return home. Barbados is not perfect. The Caribbean is not perfect. We are still wrestling with the shackles of colonialism and the legacy of slavery, with a major wealth distribution problem inherited from our plantation days. We are also grappling with a volatile world economy and the impending doom of climate change, both of which we are especially susceptible to. I promise you, we got 99 problems — but America never fit right, so I left.
Part of my heart will always be in the US. And when I say that, I’m specifically referring to the Black community that wholeheartedly embraced this “fresh-off-the-boat” Bajan girl. I mean the people who taught me about Trap music, cooked me soul food and tried to make me come home with them for Thanksgiving. I was a fish out of water, having never been a minority before, and they gave me comfort and clarity, dragging my clueless ass out the backdoor of the kickback when I didn’t understand what it meant when they said the 12 was outside.
““Most of all, I hate feeling like I dodged a bullet.””
When I think of the Black people I met in the US — I think of the strong sense of community; of love, laughter and light. And it just feels incredibly unfair that this has to be their reality, while I’m far away on an island, cocooned from this particularly violent brand of racism. I guess we could call it the luck of the slave trade draw that my ancestors ended up at a slightly different stop? Which is really ironic — growing up, it seemed like they were the lucky ones. America was the mecca of all things bright and beautiful, and most Caribbean people would have leapt at the opportunity to swap places in a heartbeat. But now my heart breaks over and over for them.
And I hate saying “them” because it seems detached, but it also feels disingenuous to say “us,” as it’s not my humanity being disregarded daily. It feels selfish to feel guilty — this moment isn’t about me or my feelings. I hate feeling scared, wanting my best friends to stay safe at home, while also understanding their need to be in the streets. Most of all, I hate feeling like I dodged a bullet.
It’s been 4 years since I graduated, and I’ve since jumped back into my island life like I never left — focusing on those twenty-something preoccupations that feel hugely important, like finding a career path and navigating relationships. But every time I see another Black person being brutalized, degraded or debased, the guilt makes me feel ill.
And I think: ok, well, I need to do something! I sign petitions, I donate where I can; I check in as often as I can, I send love and prayers. But it doesn’t feel like much. It doesn’t feel like anything at all honestly, when there are people just like me suffocating in the street. And even though being Black anywhere is hard — in America it seems damn near impossible. I was able to go home; their home takes every possible opportunity to make them feel unwanted and unwelcome.
What can those of us scattered across the globe do? Keep donating, keep signing, keep sharing; these are all important and useful tools. I think it’s also important to understand our space in this fight; we are Black but we are also allies. Social media has brought us all closer but we need to understand that many of us are watching these atrocities from afar, rather than actually living them.
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As a Black woman who still had to learn Blackness in America, we shouldn’t assume that we automatically “get” it, just because we are Black. Again, every nation has its own unique pressure points that need to be addressed when it comes to racism. But this particular pressure point and this particular moment demand that we listen, learn and amplify the voices of those on the frontline of this fight.
Some introspection might also help. I think if many African-descended people were honest with themselves, there is probably a little unlearning that needs to take place when it comes to some of the ways we’ve been taught to view African-Americans — and that’s ok.
After being forcibly displaced and separated by huge bodies of water, we all have some “getting-to-know-you” to do. What this moment has shown us, traumatic as it may be, is that we are all still making our way back to each other. Which of course means that our ways of “showing up” are limited by physical constraints, but to our skinfolk in the US, we promise you are seen. We hear you, we love you and most importantly: we got you.
