I know the first time I felt black. Fourth grade, Ms. G’s class, reading a book around the carpet about the underground railroad. As Ms. G read aloud to everyone, enthusiastically accounting the description of the main character—female and black—one of the boys in my class turned around, pointed at me, and yelled, “like Dumkele!” I was stunned and embarrassed, but I laughed it off with everyone else. I knew I was a little darker than the other kids, but even then, I did not yet know the impact of my skin colour. A few pages later, Ms. G read the word “ni**er,” prompting questions from several nine-year-olds. “What’s a ni**er?” I was not quite sure either, but it seemed similar to the word Nigerian, so I guessed it was something my parents would know about. I was Canadian, so I did not have to fret over “ni**er.” Ms. G explained to the class that it was a “bad word” used to describe black people back when “people were mean and black people were slaves.” She looked at me with sympathy and then quickly averted her gaze so that other students would not look at me for long either.
It was then that I felt black for the first time. I looked around the class awkwardly, trying to match the facial expressions of my peers as Ms. G continued reading, avoiding the gaze of the classmates I had just met three weeks back. At recess, as I walked around with my friends, I realized I was one of three or so black kids in the Calgary elementary school. Before that day, I had danced the way I wanted to, talked the way I wanted to, and played the way I wanted to. I had styled my hair in its natural state, worn vibrant and distinctive clothes, and made mistakes thinking they would be seen simply as mistakes. But those days were gone—I was black, and everybody knew.
Now, I cannot say the first time I felt like a Black Woman. Not because I am yet to experience the feeling, but because the feeling, unlike the knowledge, has always been with me. Gradually, I have grown to understand and appreciate that I am a Black Woman—two identities even more inseparable from me than my name. I have had the fortune of getting to immerse myself in my culture, living in Nigeria for my final two years of high school, and learning who I am and what I am capable of. Even though I have had several experiences like the one in Ms. G’s classroom in the twelve years since then, I stand tall, knowing my identity as a Black Woman gives me a unique perspective on the world. Here, I capitalize the “B” and the “W,” not because my pride comes from the capitalization, but because I am proud, and therefore, I capitalize. I capitalize on the opportunity to use my experience to encourage children to be conscious of their love and respect for one another. I capitalize on the opportunity to amplify the voices of all who feel like they are not heard, through published stories and civic action and my plan to be able to do so as a lawyer.
I cannot know of all the times I was discriminated against, but I know what it feels like to persevere. I capitalize on the opportunity to share my story, in hopes to inspire others to be proud of who they are and to show how seemingly trivial events can have tremendous impacts. For some, the impact is detrimental. For me, the impact was instrumental and an invaluable perspective for the legal field.