“How do you feel?”
This is the question I get asked the most by my non-Black peers.
“How do you feel being one of a few Black students at Queen’s?”
Though they always ask, I’ve found no one ever really wants to know the answer. Nor are they interested in listening. They start off strong with very intentional nods and vague sounds of understanding, but the shift in conversation is inevitable. As soon as I finish my final sentence—if I even get to finish it—they’re quickly trying to find a way to make the topic of my isolation about themselves.
Soon enough, I find myself nodding along while a white person tells me about the shameful lack of diversity in their small town in Northern Ontario. Or I get to hear about the one Black girl they were friends with in high school and how her and I would probably get along, if we ever got the chance to meet.
“How do you feel?”
To answer the question honestly, there are too many feelings to say.
Whenever the topic of race is brought up, I feel a pit in my stomach, especially when I’m the only Black person in the room—and I often am. I usually find myself minimizing my feelings, keeping my voice light and my sentences brief so I don’t accidentally make someone uncomfortable by discussing my own discomfort.
That pit in my stomach, the feeling of overwhelming dread, stays with me most days at Queen’s, especially when I’m in class. As a history major, it’s impossible to avoid the topic of anti-Black racism. I know it’s rooted in most of modern history, and I know I have to learn about it—but that doesn’t stop that horrible feeling rising whenever I open my syllabus and see an entire lecture dedicated to the slave trade or Jim Crow America.
The feeling only worsens when I walk into a lecture and discover I’m the only Black person in the room. A lump forms in my throat when I see that word on a slide and I have to wonder if today is the day I’ll hear a professor make an excuse for saying a racial slur. I find myself overcome with joy when they don’t.
“How do you feel?”
Sometimes, I feel annoyed.
If I see a group of strangers taking up the entire sidewalk, refusing to move, I’m annoyed because I now have to step onto the road to skirt around them. I then become angry at myself because I should stand my ground and walk right through them if they refuse to share the public infrastructure. But I’ve never been brave enough. So, I always step onto the street.
I also feel annoyed when I’m talking to a group of white people, and they completely ignore me. I think about all the times I’ve been told to put myself out there and make new friends. I wonder how that’s possible if nobody is interested in hearing what I have to say.
“How do you feel?”
Other times, it can be funny, and I feel like laughing.
Once, in a gender studies tutorial, we were discussing what it’s like to be “othered” because of your race. We broke off into small groups to discuss and a girl turned to me and said, “not to pick on you, but…”, making a face like I should be able to fill in the rest of her sentence. At that moment, I laughed.
I wasn’t upset with the girl—of course, in a group of white people, I’d be the best one to talk about experiencing racial othering.
It’s funny when nobody wants to sit next to me on the bus or share a lane with me at the pool; that’s fine by me. Feel free to stand—now I have a seat for my bag.
“How do you feel?”
But more than anything, I feel scared.
Being the only Black person at a party is a lot more terrifying than being the only Black person in a classroom. I’m scared to go too far from campus. The looks from the Kingston locals are somehow more withering than the looks from Queen’s students.
I’m scared to put my hands in my pockets when I walk through the drugstore. I don’t want to get in trouble for something I didn’t do and instead of trying to defend myself to a security guard, I avoid my pockets entirely.
These feelings of fear and dread are easily washed away when I get to be with my friends—friends who look like me.
They showed up right when I needed it the most, at the start of a cold and dreary winter semester. All it took was one introduction and it grew from there. It wasn’t easy; until then I hadn’t had many positive experiences with Queen’s students. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that I’d found the most amazing group of people who I never have to be shy around—people who actually listen when I speak and never make me feel excluded.
I’m lucky enough to have friends like this at home, but in Kingston, these were my first friends who looked like me and understood me. Spending even two minutes with them can make even the most horrible days a million times better.
Finding a community of Black women I’m lucky enough to call my friends was one of the best things to happen to me at Queen’s. It showed me that it isn’t always bad. It can get better—if not, bearable. Soon enough, the looks didn’t matter as much and the pit in my stomach went away. In no time, I felt safe, and I felt seen.
“How do you feel?”
So, to answer the question: most of the time, I feel too many negative things to explain with just one word. But the rest of the time, I feel loved.
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