The Box of Blackness
It has been quite a while..I know...I'm trying to learn better discipline. Here you go...
Prior to my relocation to New York City, I never really took into account the fact that being black and being Nigerian are two very different things. By this I mean that although I was aware of the theoretical differences, I never really had any social or cultural experiences that served to ram the point home.
Over the past four years, having swallowed the red pill and ended up down the rabbit hole, I am looking at the world with fresh eyes and realising that in today’s society blackness is a double-edged sword. A weapon of devastating abilities that serves to provide one with instant inclusion and exclusion simultaneously…or if you are as apparently odd as I am, you can end up in no mans land.
At the risk of sounding judgmental, I have to say that the US is by and large a country built on labels. There are a lot of different boxes into which everyone supposedly fits. It is akin to a giant warehouse holding various goods; all packaged separately according to type to prevent any confusion. Mix anything up, and chaos ensues.
Based on my appearance, the label on my box reads: BLACK PERSON. In the BLACK PERSON BOX, we all listen to hip-hop and r’n’b exclusively, we love chicken, enjoy family reunions at which we have barbecue, skiing or camping is not an option for us, we all dress in Sean John or Baby Phat apparel, we are all for driving the biggest SUVs we can find with shiny rims and most importantly, we do not form serious relationships or friendships with anyone who is not in the BLACK PERSON box, unless they are in the LATINO PERSON box.
This arrangement always causes me to give pause and scratch my head, because as a product of Nigeria/England, I have never had my box described to me. I often run into problems because of this, causing the warehouse admin to attempt to shove me into another box they have created. This box is left on the side, as far away from the rest of the boxes as possible. It is ostracised because it is deemed to be some form of a contaminant. The label on this box simply bears one word: COCONUT. I cannot describe the contents of the COCONUT box accurately to you, as I have never deigned to take a peek inside. Whenever warehouse personnel attempt to shove me in there, I fight them off kicking and screaming.
For the most part, they seem to have learned their lesson, they now know to leave well enough alone. I am left to wander the halls of the warehouse, checking out box after box, as well as mingling with all the other renegades who choose not to wear any of the one-size fits all labels we are provided with. It takes some getting used to, and the initial sensation is one of loneliness and exclusion at the thought that you don’t belong anywhere in particular. Eventually though, this gives way to understanding. Clarity descends and you begin to realise that you do in fact, belong everywhere. This is something I would never have had the opportunity to learn, if I had allowed them to shove me in the box and close the lid. They would have locked me in there and thrown the key away forever.
The box is a dangerous place. Stay in there and the rest of the world will close it on you. You will be viewed, as the product of an assembly line, mass-produced and regurgitated for the world’s consumption, and stereotypes will prevail.
Prior to my relocation to New York City, I never really took into account the fact that being black and being Nigerian are two very different things. By this I mean that although I was aware of the theoretical differences, I never really had any social or cultural experiences that served to ram the point home.
Over the past four years, having swallowed the red pill and ended up down the rabbit hole, I am looking at the world with fresh eyes and realising that in today’s society blackness is a double-edged sword. A weapon of devastating abilities that serves to provide one with instant inclusion and exclusion simultaneously…or if you are as apparently odd as I am, you can end up in no mans land.
At the risk of sounding judgmental, I have to say that the US is by and large a country built on labels. There are a lot of different boxes into which everyone supposedly fits. It is akin to a giant warehouse holding various goods; all packaged separately according to type to prevent any confusion. Mix anything up, and chaos ensues.
Based on my appearance, the label on my box reads: BLACK PERSON. In the BLACK PERSON BOX, we all listen to hip-hop and r’n’b exclusively, we love chicken, enjoy family reunions at which we have barbecue, skiing or camping is not an option for us, we all dress in Sean John or Baby Phat apparel, we are all for driving the biggest SUVs we can find with shiny rims and most importantly, we do not form serious relationships or friendships with anyone who is not in the BLACK PERSON box, unless they are in the LATINO PERSON box.
This arrangement always causes me to give pause and scratch my head, because as a product of Nigeria/England, I have never had my box described to me. I often run into problems because of this, causing the warehouse admin to attempt to shove me into another box they have created. This box is left on the side, as far away from the rest of the boxes as possible. It is ostracised because it is deemed to be some form of a contaminant. The label on this box simply bears one word: COCONUT. I cannot describe the contents of the COCONUT box accurately to you, as I have never deigned to take a peek inside. Whenever warehouse personnel attempt to shove me in there, I fight them off kicking and screaming.
For the most part, they seem to have learned their lesson, they now know to leave well enough alone. I am left to wander the halls of the warehouse, checking out box after box, as well as mingling with all the other renegades who choose not to wear any of the one-size fits all labels we are provided with. It takes some getting used to, and the initial sensation is one of loneliness and exclusion at the thought that you don’t belong anywhere in particular. Eventually though, this gives way to understanding. Clarity descends and you begin to realise that you do in fact, belong everywhere. This is something I would never have had the opportunity to learn, if I had allowed them to shove me in the box and close the lid. They would have locked me in there and thrown the key away forever.
The box is a dangerous place. Stay in there and the rest of the world will close it on you. You will be viewed, as the product of an assembly line, mass-produced and regurgitated for the world’s consumption, and stereotypes will prevail.
posted by Monef at 1:06 PM
3 Comments:
Moneffffff!!!!!!!
Dolance
Enjoyed reading that piece every single word. I kinda miss NYC ...the village sometimes !
OMG. This is the first time I've heard someone describe my experience (although it's about you!). The US 'boxes' are the most ridiculous but someone once told me how it goes. When you meet new people you find out what box they 'think' they fit into and jump into it. You do this by learning about cultures/ enviroments so you become versatile. The secret is in becoming versatile enough to fool people into thinking that your part of their group/box and accept you. Once in you can express your individuality as you please.
It's pretty much sales technique.
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