At the age of four, I was adopted from a foster home in Chicago, Ilinois y a white woman and Ghanian man who then relocated me to Iowa. I spent my childhood with my face buried in electronic handheld game systems, listening to alternative music, and to my parents' frustration, taking anything apart that I could get my hands on so that I could see how it worked. I didn't like to write because everything was fuzzy. I would try and try but my handwriting was awful; so awful that my 5th-grade teacher belittled me in front of my classmates. I was then diagnosed with dyslexia at 10 years old.
My parents raised me to not be ashamed of my learning disability. My mother, a DNA analyst for the Divison of the Criminal Investigation, told me I was "special" and that I had "super powers." She introduced me to a thesaurus, which, at the time I thought was odd. She told me: "It doesn't matter if you write and see things backward, what matters is your voice." By the time I was 15, I was using words like omnipotent and discernment (It got on everyone's nerves except my parents). I was unaware that my vocabulary was extensive not because I was arrogant or uppity, but because it was my tool for survival in a predominantly white state. I have been accused of acting and talking white for over 22 years, which never really got to me until recently when Donald Trump empowered racist America to become outspoken again.
All of a sudden, I was experiencing something I had never experienced before. White people were no longer focused on how articulate I was or calling me "not black enough" In fact, it was the opposite. Racism was creeping into my life in ways that I could barely comprehend as I had been shielded from it for most of my life. I was confused and scared. Yes, I knew I was black, but I thought I was accepted because my mother told me my voice mattered. Donald Trump vetoed my mother's words and every single thing I had ever been taught in a few short months — it didn't matter anymore. All of a sudden, to whites, I was just a black woman with the urban name "Sharika." Where was I? I don't hate them, why were they lashing out at me? Don't they hear me speak? No, no one can hear me now. They can only read what I write in 140 characters on Twitter. I was disabled all over again. Struggling to communicate because dyslexia never goes away and grammar police never take the time to ask if you have a disorder that causes you type like a 12-year-old.
For too long some black people have assumed I had it easy or that I'm brainwashed because I chose to see white people as non-threatening and that I believe it's the human and not the skin color that is evil. Evil comes in all sizes, shapes, and forms. Why should I judge people I don't know? Until Donald Trump, this was my perspective. I want to be clear: I am too old now to ever submit to the idea that black people are inferior or less than. I also reject the idea that government programs like welfare are a safety net. And, in my opinion, the Democratic party is no better in my eyes than Republicans. Something has changed, and I cannot unsee this truth. Whether you are a "white talking" black or an ebonic fluent African-American, you are just a black person in America. Forget your degree from college and the fact that you own your own three bedroom house — you're still Sharika and you are subhuman to white people. Even to the ones fighting for my rights: they fight hard where everyone can see them but behind closed doors, I am treated like a powerless and helpless black, which makes me feel like I have no voice.
Championing a chipped shoulder of entitlement and backwardness will never solve racism or the issues within the black community. This will only end when all of us refuse to accept mistreatment of human beings as a society standard. Then, and only then, will we truly be able to move forward as Americans and not our skin tones.
