ballerina chronicles: part three

My positionality within the world has been a concept that I have become more aware of recently. As a Black, Afro-Caribbean nonbinary queer person (she/they), I feel that it is important for me to understand my positionality and intersectionality in society to become aware of the advantages and disadvantages that I have experienced due to my race, class, and gender. 

​I grew up in the suburbs of the Inland Empire, attending predominantly white institutions my entire grade school career. I fell in love with English and books. Naturally, it improved my cadence and expanded my vocabulary. This was something I’ve always been proud of, even though my extended family thought that I talked too “proper” or that I was whitewashed. My extended family viewed my siblings and me as not Black enough because we weren’t raised in the inner city. In some ways, our experiences were different than what is portrayed in the "traditional" Black American stereotypes. And our likes and interests (singing, dancing, creating) didn’t plead our case. So, we were ostracized. Only feeling comfortable being ourselves within our immediate family or, very few times, with our (white) friends. 

​I wasn’t book-smart in school. I have always been more creatively inclined. Although I went to decent schools, I was one of those kids who was always just barely making it by. I truly didn’t understand the value of education until I started college. “The first thing I want to say to you who are students, is that you cannot afford to think of being here to receive an education; you will do much better to think of yourselves as being here to claim one.” (Rich, 1) I’ve always thought that I was a terrible student until I realized that I just didn’t have anyone in my life encouraging me to excel academically. I had always been praised for my creativity, so I focused solely on that. 

My mother enrolled me in dance when I was five years old. I loved it so much that I did it for 17 years. I was always the token Black girl in these spaces. Sometimes, I feel that it worked in my favor and against me. Nonetheless, I didn’t like the way it made me feel. 

I had a two-parent household up until middle school. I come from a middle-class family. For as long as I can remember, my mom has always been the one to hold our family together. Her dedication and work ethic allowed her to always provide for her children. We were never without. She’s always set out to give us all the experiences that she never had. Although some of it was unnecessary, I appreciate her for that. “Responsibility to yourself means refusing to let others do your thinking, talking, and naming for you; it means learning to respect your instincts: hence, grappling with hard work.” (Rich, 3) Because of my mother (and strenuous dance training), I understand the value of working hard to get what I want. 

I understand and am aware of the fact that I benefit from a certain degree of privilege as a Black woman who knows how to operate in predominantly white spaces. Recently, when I have interactions with certain white people, I’ve observed that they view me as a “favorable” Black person because I speak well and I have interests in things that don’t align with the Black stereotype. Although it is not always comfortable for me, being able to navigate these spaces opens me up to a lot of (better) connections and resources. This is an advantage that I could utilize to help not only myself but others reach success or health, as well. 

Coming from a Black middle-class family also has its privileges. I understand that I have access to better resources than those (Black families) that live in the inner city. I am grateful that my parents intertwined us in both worlds. Growing up, we always understood that we lived different lives from my extended cousins. It gave me a different perspective and respect for people who have realities that aren’t similar to mine. It has also taught me to be adaptable and compassionate. 

Because I am Black, identify as gender-fluid, and queer, I also experience some disadvantages. Over the last couple of years, I have had first-hand experience with not being taken seriously within the healthcare system. “While individual white women with class privilege often have access to both these safeguards, most women did not.” (Hooks, 26) I have come to realize that being a Black woman in pain can feel very lonely. “In those days, poor women, Black women included, often sought illegal abortions. The right to have an abortion was not a white-women-only issue; it was simply not the only or even the most important reproductive concern for the masses of American women.” (Hooks, 26) The majority of the time, we are gaslit or shooed away, having to deal with a doctor who will only give us the bare minimum. I have quickly accepted that because of my skin color, I will not always be taken seriously by healthcare professionals. Acknowledging that urged me to learn how to speak up for myself and demand the support that I need. 

Being queer and Black also has its disadvantages. There is still a lot of homophobia, not only in society but specifically within the black community. At times, this can feel isolating. Leaving me scrambling for a connection. There are some wonderful pockets of love within the LGBTQ+ community. However, racism is still alive and well. Let’s not forget that just like (white) cis-hetero people, (white) queer people can be racist, too. This has taught me to choose the company I keep wisely. 

I often find that I am constantly being misgendered as a queer person. I once worked as a host for a restaurant in Huntington Beach, with white people being the majority of the demographic. I was the only Black person working here at the time. White men would look me in the face and call me “sir” because of my hair. White women would

touch my hair and send me flirty winks (invading my personal space), leaving me to have to remain professional. Being queer and Black seems to give people the impression that my identity doesn’t deserve recognition. It doesn’t deserve to be seen. This is why I make it a priority to remind myself that my identity is valid and I do deserve to be accepted fully. 

Works Cited:

Hooks, Bell. Feminism Is for Everybody: Passionate Politics. Routledge, 2015. 

Rich, Adrienne. “Claiming An Education.”