By Yalie Kamara

It’s very easy to run away from problems. Easy to write fragmented entries in journals because whole sentences fully articulate the things that plague my mind, and that is absolutely frightening. Sometimes I need what I do not want. Maybe more than anything, I owe myself the truth.

There are 17,000 people here and once again I am the only black person in my French class. It’s been this way since the 10th grade, and by now it’s so routine that I know I’ll never be used to it. I am feeling this inescapable solitude again. Feeling like the shadows and I are the darkest things in the classroom. Feeling like I need to have another black person in class with me, just so I can smile at my reflection. Smile a smile that says “We’ve made it, and our families are proud” without ever speaking. I smile this way walking through the Commons when I see black people together, when I start to believe the 6% does exist. My mouth is aching to grin in class.

We read stories of imperialism and colonialism in French 6. We read texts drenched in racism and nobody will acknowledge this. Why didn’t the teacher bring it up in class? Why did I have to bring it up? She looked so disappointed, almost upset, that I had called attention to our books. Had I shut my mouth, silence would have been consent, rendering our readings permissible and acceptable. It’s almost as if she felt she owed me time for a class discussion on racism in France following my question. Like 10 minutes would erase the disgust I felt. Like the kids being shocked that racism existed in Europe wouldn’t make me feel nauseous. I didn’t feel like talking about it anymore, yet it turned into a dialogue. An impromptu dialogue that would serve as the panacea I needed. After class she tells me “there will be more racist and offensive literature coming up,” and that I should “never be afraid to speak up.” I want to ask her why she didn’t tell us about the racist and offensive literature beforehand. I want to ask her why she was afraid to speak up. I want to cry. I do not want her to ever talk to me about it again. I want alone. I want support. I want my reflection in class with me. I want to dry my eyes and smile again.

We read stories where black women are hideous with thick hair, large eyes, and dark skin. I still think thick hair, large eyes, and dark skin are beautiful. I think I’m beautiful. I want to smile again.

We watch movies where beautiful, regal looking black men are the lowliest of workers. They are “boys” demeaned, and nobody sees anything wrong with the way they are treated. The servitude, the emasculation, the sense of worthlessness this position entails, the toll it takes on one’s dignity. However, the class thinks these French families treat their boys well. I disagree once more. I wonder what they stand for. What do these college students stand for?

During our newly instituted discussions based on our readings and cinematic experiences, my teacher prefaces my response by telling them that my family is from Sierra Leone, a French speaking country. I tell her she’s wrong and that it was colonized by the British. I want her to know that I am working just as hard as everyone else in the class to learn French. I want her to see that I may be the hardest worker in the class.

I’m in this place in my mind where B+’s aren’t good enough. My classmates wonder why I get flustered by my grades though they are among the best in class. I’m not the only one riding on the strength or weaknesses of my performance. I feel like I have to excel for so many people.

There is this strange pressure to always succeed, not only for the sake of intelligence but also for the fact that I’m black. It just gets frustrating, the need to achieve for more than the sake of achieving. I need to achieve because I’m black. In my classmates’ respective paths, I don’t know how many more students they will meet who are black. I need to prove to them that diligent working students can be black. I have to dispel stereotypes because I’m black. It’s my duty because I’m black. I have to show them that I earned my spot in college and not because I am black.

Yet I am so sick of playing makeshift ambassador.

Thank God for my hallmate Monique. She is from Zaire and French was her first language. We gossip together and do other constructive linguistic activities en français. One of my hallmates tells me he has never met two African American girls who could speak French. He forgets that Monique is Zairian and that my family is from Sierra Leone. Not all black people are African American. I’m happy for his sake that he knows us. I tell him this. I want to tell him that we exist. We are not a fabled subculture. There are whole countries of us who speak French. There are us who have learned it in school. I am annoyed by his ignorance, how he is more sheltered than the roof of a new house. Then I step back and realize that I cannot be completely upset with his lack of exposure.

I’m so tired of hearing my own voice always refuting the accepted and seemingly appropriate things we are taught in school. I am metamorphosing into my voice. I’m even more annoyed with echoes and lonely places. Maybe my voice is my reflection. Maybe I should smile at my words.