The first time i realised i was black

The First Day I Realised I Was Black (Written Version)

The first day I realised I was black: By Olatundun Erinfolami

As I stood on the basketball court, the harsh glare of floodlights illuminated the polished wooden floor beneath my feet. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the surface echoed through the empty stadium. I'm unsure of the path that led me to this point in time, or space, in the middle of this basketball square, with a spherical ball in my hand. The scene suddenly dissolves.

It was 2019, as I walked into the brightly coloured classroom, filled with laughter and chatter, I felt a sense of unease settle in the pit of my stomach. The other children seemed to form an impenetrable barrier, their giggles and whispers growing hushed as they glanced into my direction. I was different from them, and they made sure I knew it. Their eyes bore into me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. It didn't take long for their whispers to reach my ears - "He's poor", their words laced with judgment and superiority. It was as if being black automatically meant that I was destined for poverty and hardship. The isolation was suffocating, and it felt like an invisible wall had been erected between me and the rest of the class. The sensation of being left alone and not fitting in can be likened to being adrift in an ocean of unfamiliar faces, each one a distant island that seems impossible to reach. It's like being in a shadow in a room filled with light, feeling all at once invisible and inconspicuous. The feeling is akin to being a solitary cloud in a clear sky, yearning for the comfort of companionship but unable to find solace amidst the vast expanse. It wasn't the words or cold shoulders, it was the fact that I felt I had to be in a separate box, I just couldn't fit in. There and then all everyone had seen was a tape on my forehead, boldly written, "different human". Like an itch feeling, which when rubbed too much goes permanently red. It was clear that no matter how hard we try to cover our sins, we'll always be different. You can never change how the society paints you.

I took a glance at my surroundings, I mean, I was in a world where appearances and material possessions hold significant weight. Where it is difficult for people from one shade darker than white, to belong. Skin colour has always been a defining factor of shaping perceptions, attitudes, and treatment. Where white skin seems to have a lens of privilege, opportunity, and let's not forget, beauty. While black skin is a prism of struggle, discrimination, and adversity. This contrast can be likened to the radiance of a pearl, shining on the soil, shinning on the surface, filled with white people. While the soil beneath it stayed in loathing, and unworthiness, filled with the unprivileged ones that weren't white. The students in this school appeared to have emerged from a white machine, impeccable dresses in designer clothes and sporting the latest fashion trends. Their long, styled hair seemed to emphasise their perfection, while I was in my best outfit. I mean it was a little overgrown, but I did love it. Maybe because of the vibrant, bold writing on the shirt. It read, "We are all equal". I couldn't help but wonder if those around me couldn't read the message or if it had become dirty from the stink of racism that seemed to permeate the room. The unpleasant expressions on their faces on their faces only served to deepen my sense of isolation and longing to fit in. As I questioned, "How am I different?"

As the thought roamed through my head in circles, I'm not sure what took so long, maybe it was the lecture, or perhaps just perhaps, the irrelevant of the matter, that no one seemed to realise but 6-year-old me could. At recess, the sun, beating down on the playground, casting a warm glow over us. Right in the corner of my eye, i observed a girl gracefully dancing ballet, her movements were delicate and precise, like a flatter of a butterfly's wings. Her tutu swirled around her, creating a whirlwind of colours that seemed to dance along with her. The graceful arcs of her limbs were a testament to the countless hours she had dedicated to perfecting her craft, and a boy passionately playing football filled with energy and determination, his feet a blur as he manoeuvred around his opponents. The ball, a round and unyielding object, bounced off the ground with a satisfying thud, while the shouts of his teammates punctuated the air with their enthusiasm. As I watched them, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease, it looked like they were being forced to express themselves to the world, a colourful tapestry (thick fabric), filled with individuals from various backgrounds and interest. The question struck me, "How am I different?". And from that day on, I was remembered by our differences. The world, a colourful abrasion (torn fabric), filled with the notion of race, sexism, ethnicity, status, and I could go on and on, on how it had shaped our perceptions of certain activities and professions. As time went on, I met some of my 'class', the 'unprivileged' ones. It was nice to know you could relate to someone, except I felt different again. They were all boyish and played basketball. Feeling like a ball shipping into boxes, to find my matching colour, everyone seemed to have found their 'BFF'S' or 'twin', but I hadn't, I couldn't. My mom claimed I was unique, but it didn't seem that way. The air seemed to thicken around me, suffocating me with its oppressive presence. I couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place again, like a puzzle piece found into a wrong picture. It wasn't just the strangers passing by their eyes sliding over me without recognition or acknowledgment. It was as if even my own reflection in the shop windows turned away from me, refusing to meet my gaze. Every step I took echoed hollowly in my ears, a lonely rhythm that seemed to emphasise my isolation. The weight of my chest felt like an anchor dragging me down into an abyss of loneliness. Everywhere I go, the city streets stretch out before me like a never-ending maze, each step a struggle against an invincible force pushing back at me. Every sound seemed to sneer at me. The screech of brakes, the clatter of footsteps, the wall of sirens, all mocking echoes that reverberated through my mind. It was at that point in life when you realise you must break through that impenetrable barrier between you and the world.

And mine was to be my skin colour, the societal expectations on white skin are suffocating, like a heavy cloak that they cannot remove. They are expected to behave in a certain manner, to conform to a set of standards that have been imposed by the society. Yes, the society pressing down on them like a leaden sky, leaving them feeling trapped and constrained. Pressed to fit into a predetermined Mold, stifling their true selves in the process. And the coloured skin seen as the lower class. The upper class typically those with financial resources, education, occupation, better lifestyle, lots of social status. While the lower class feeds on the crumbs. But the feeling of being a lower class to the lower class is different. It's not just a feeling, it's a struggle when you gaze into the mirror, seeing a harsh reflection of your own inadequacies. The imagery of your own reflection echoing, "You're not enough." Another stage in life when you become that person you envy. And so, the only people I did dare to look at, were my 'class' who got recognised.

The scene suddenly solves, here I am unsure of the path that led me to this point in time or space. Standing in the basketball court, you truly can never change how society paints you, because they've got the brush. It's your story, it's your time you shoot the ball. I truly am different, but maybe in more than my colour. The first time I realised I was black, every day, the world tells me in ways you've never understand. But why must the colour of our skin become the reason for our sin? Why must we face such cruelty in a world that's supposed to be free? Why must our brothers and sisters hear such hurtful, vicious whispers? Why must we bear this heavy weight in a land that's filled with hate? As we walk through life, we bear the weight of a world that's not fair in its fate. We are judged by the colour of our skin and left to fight the battles within. The constant struggle to prove ourselves only deepens the wounds that hurts. And when the pain becomes too much to bear, some choose to end their lives in despair. Why must we be the ones to shutter? Why must we fight for equality when others seem to walk in ease? How can we break these chains of bigotry? How can we silence the hate-filled rhetoric? How can we heal the wounds that have been inflicted? Though the path is long and hard to tread. We must continue to fight for what's ahead. For love and unity can heal the scars. And bring an end to the countless tears. We must raise our voices and demand change. For a world where our children won't feel pain. And when the battle is won, we'll sing of the love that conquered bigotry's string.