MORE THAN THE COLOR OF MY SKIN
By Michelle Fitzhugh-Craig, shades Magazine
I’m tired, Y’all.
I’m tired of not sleeping well at night. I’m tired of hearing helicopters circle my house for hours on end. I’m worn out from not only having one pandemic to deal with, but now a second virus has boiled to the surface.
And most importantly – something I didn’t realize until this past week – is I’m tired of living inside skin that makes me a target. Skin that makes people who look like me a target … that puts a bull’s eye on my two sons who over the last decade especially, are being more openly hunted by some merely because of the color of their skin.
I’ve known for almost five decades that racism existed, even though it was never “in my face.” I grew up in Glendale, Arizona, where my parents did a good job of shielding me and my siblings from the “real world.” They weren’t Pollyanna … they just wanted a better life for their children. They wanted to not weigh us down with the burdens they knew were there.
Dad – a career military man – grew up in the Deep South; Mom – a teacher – primarily in Northern California … both in the 1930s to 1950s. We were taught love and equality for all and that we should never hate another. There was not much talk of prejudices that others had as the communities we were raised in were pretty diverse. But when we were each old enough, we were made aware they existed.
As I grew older, I learned more about racism and heard stories that proved that although slavery had ended close to 150 years earlier, the hate and privilege some people wore as badges of honor still existed. I heard stories of draggings, modern-day lynchings and of the Ku Klux Klan burning crosses. And when my Uncle Jr. died and Dad traveled with my young sister back to Macon, Georgia, to bury him, I instinctively knew I didn’t want to go. I was afraid to venture into a part of the country I’d only heard scary stories about. A region where my skin color was not celebrated by all.
I chose to attend a Catholic high school in Phoenix where I was the only one of no more than five black students at any time. During my freshman year, my world was emotionally shattered when I went to my first dance and no one asked me to dance. The event followed our football game against a team from Mexico City whose players only looked at me and passed me by, similar to the boys in my school. I had plenty of friends and got along with my fellow students … but no one asked me to dance.
Again I instinctively knew, it was because I didn’t look like everyone else.
Over the next four years, I often felt isolated. It is difficult to fully explain why; it’s just an awareness most People of Color experience – when in the vast minority – that they are “different.” I had many friends, was on the pom line, on the yearbook and newspaper staffs and enjoyed my high school years. But there was something stirring in me … a voice that said I mattered, too.
Over the next 30 years, I was immersed in educating myself, my four now grown children and anyone who would listen. I joined nonprofit boards and organizations that promoted equality. I created projects that highlighted and celebrated underrepresented communities – especially those of Color.
Then in 2016, probably the most loved President of all time left office, making way for a “regime” that proved to the world what People of Color have been saying all along – racism is alive and well in the United States of America.
If you still have doubts, look at just the last four weeks:
- A videotape showing the fatal shooting of a young black man jogging near his Brunswick, Georgia, home surfaced more than two months after the incident;
- We learned of a young African American woman who, after Louisville (Kentucky) Metro Police officers entered her apartment while serving a “no-knock warrant,” was shot eight times and killed;
- In NYC’s Central Park, a woman worked herself into a frenzy after being asked by a black man who was bird watching to leash her dog. In her 911 call to police, she falsely claimed an African American man was threatening her life; and then
- Three officers were videotaped kneeling on a black man lying face down on the street – one of them digging his knee into the man’s neck until almost three minutes after he passed out. He later was pronounced dead at the hospital – all of this allegedly over a $20 bill being passed at a local store.
No longer is white America only hearing the stories of racism and hate. They are playing out right in front of them, too.
No longer can black people be told by people they know – sometimes even friends – that we are magnifying our claims of injustice. We have phones with tiny cameras that prove otherwise.
No longer are People of Color wondering if anyone in the white majority is ever going to stand long enough with us before the next ethnic group falls prey to its hate.
On Wednesday, charges against the four cops who are culpable for George Floyd’s death were updated for one and assigned to the others. Many of us exhaled hearing the news. But what’s next? How can we create a collective change to end racism or at least make everyone aware about racial inequality?
We have work to do, Y’all. I’m not the only one tired. I’m not the only one who wonders how the color of their skin will next have a negative reaction. I’m not the only parent with black sons who one day may, too, have black sons who they worry about every time they leave the house.
With my fatigue comes a numbness, but it’s time to let that all go. We all must grieve its existence, set it to the side and continue a “new and improved” fight that hopefully now will include people who also do not look like us. Because to end racism we need the voices of everyone. Not just a few.
Michelle Fitzhugh-Craig is the founder and publisher of shades Magazine and owner of MFC3 Media. She has been an editor, reporter and writer for more than 20 years and is a longtime active member of the National Association of Black Journalists.
Updated: 4/4/23
Original post date: 6/4/20