America, the land of the free and the home of the brave. It’s where people walk covered in gold with roads flushed with dollar bills. As a young Jamaican girl, this is what I thought America actually was. I had never seen America but had heard stories. I was overjoyed at the idea of moving to America. So when I moved to New York and jumped right into 3rd grade, I was in for a rude awakening. I was the new kid, happy and joyful just to have the attention on me as I made lots and lots of new friends just a couple weeks in the school year. The classroom was full of Black American history and readings, something I was not used to. The faces on the posters were blurry to me and unfamiliar as I had never seen or heard the stories of those looking at me from the book covers.
I would eventually learn of their stories to realize they weren’t all fairytales. To be put on a wall of just my 3rd grade classroom, they went through hell and back. Everything changed on a specific day, when I walked into class and my teacher presented a new project. I would finally be learning of those faces around the room as the project would follow the research of prominent black figures throughout history. I will admit, the project was draining for me being that young as my mind had been learning of a new perspective in which wasn’t privileged and happy throughout America’s history. I was young and was exposed to the first snippet of the cruelty of the world and the underlying evil of America’s past. I was introduced to the name Harriet Tudman for my project. I had no idea who she was but quickly began learning of how strong and heroic she was. Learning of her I heard stories of the murder and enslavement of African Americans. This made me tremble as I completed my project, however it was the first time I learned of what oppression truly was in old America.
At the sight of those graphic experiences, I suddenly froze. Thinking of what she went through was just beyond what I had learnt before about history, specifically America’s. The whole project felt like I was driving peacefully but was just rear ended by a bunch of new information. Surrounding who paved the way for kids like me to even get an education in America. Yes I felt a sense of fear within completing my project as dumb as it sounds. I was around eight at the time and came from an environment where skin color was not commented on as much. A place where you were just you. So believe me, I was having a full on freak out years after learning about slavery and what it was.
It was no longer 3rd grade. I was now in 5th grade and was handed a book on African Americans in the US. I was in my favorite class, English, and hadn’t learned of the black American experience since 3rd grade. I began to remember the minty fresh smell of that 3rd grade classroom filled with history books, as I looked down on the cream colored book about slavery in my hand. I flipped through the pages of the book no longer seeing only Harriet Tudman’s stories, but stories of those after her. I looked down at my hands noticing the beauty of the book. It had beautiful paintings which graphically showed the fear on the faces of those protesting, houses burned down as people screamed in terror, Malcolm X, and so much more.
I felt that same rush of emotion from 3rd grade but instead of fear, I was sad. I was sad learning and seeing the houses burnt down with black families inside, riots, bodies on top of bodies, and the terror the illustrator managed to depict. It was all so sad to me. In the little classroom that was only 2 rooms away from my 3rd grade room, I tried to stay calm but I was freaking out as my eyes met the graphic but also intriguing images. Muhhammad Ali stood tall in the ring as the audience watched in awe, Malcolm X spoke proudly, and in that moment I truly saw how many fought with their lives, for a better life.
Nevertheless, I got through the book with not only Harriet’s words this time, but the experiences of other activists and those photos imprinted within my mind. Years later, I’m always invested in learning more about black history. Something happened along the way of me growing up where I no longer felt confused of what America’s history truly is, but intrigued to learn of those who fought for my freedom and the freedom of so many others in this country. I’ve learned of so many experiences thus far, the history of certain poses used to shame African Americans throughout history, the case which allows interracial marriages today, meanings of certain words and phrases and much more. What once scared me and confused me now intrigues me. I mean, you learn something new everyday.
