Now some people this may not seem as that big of an issue, and to me it wasn’t…well at first it wasn’t.
Let’s sum up my first two weeks of classes in Florence! I had my outfit on lock, my hair was on point, my make-up was flawless, and I looked (and felt) like a baddie. I strutted my way down the cobblestone streets as the wind blew through my fabulously blonde hair. I walked into the classroom (after I climbed up 100 stairs—yes I counted). As I found myself a seat, I noticed people were looking at me, but haters look at me all the time so I ignored it. The professor called role, everything was Gucci. All of my classes for the rest of the first week went the same. I was excited for the next week to start because I figured everyone would be out of the awkward ice breaker phase of classes.
WRONG! The next week of classes start, and I sashayed into my seat and the professor points to me and says “You’re Nicole, right?” I then proceeded to flash my pearly whites, and nod.
DISCLAIMER: The next part of this story might shock some. Reader discretion is advised.
A tan blonde girl sitting next to me, with her 2000 and late ankle-strap shoes, turned to me and said “Of course he remembers your name.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, preparing to throw so much shade that people would have thought an eclipse was happening.
“You know what I mean,” she replied slightly rolling her neck.
“I don’t know what you mean, so say it.”
I knew exactly what she meant I just wanted to know if she was actually dumb enough to say it.
“It’s pretty obvious, you’re…black”, she said it like it was a disease.
I looked at my hands and marveled at her discovery.
“Oh. My. Goodness. I didn’t even notice,” I said with all of the sarcasm in my soul. “But that doesn’t mean that’s why he remembered my name. So, by your logic he doesn’t remember all of your names because all white girls look alike?”
“No.”
“Oh, so you’re just so basic, that you aren’t worth remembering?”
Okay, let’s slow down for a second. I might have gone too far, but by that time that was the fourth time someone made a remark regarding my race in class. I even had a professor ask me what it was like being raised in Detroit. Someone on the street asked me what it was like living in Compton. I know some of the remarks that I get from my professors, who are native Italians, are due to them being ignorant to my culture, but it’s jarring to see the American students saying these outlandish things to me. In America, people may think these things, but out of fear of appearing racist, they usually keep it to themselves. This definitely has not been the first time I was the only black person in a class, but it was the first time people went out of their way to bring it to my attention. If this was the case in an American classroom, the professor would have been removed from the situation (or just slapped on the wrist depending on where it’s happening). If this had happened in America, I also would have demanded a formal public apology, but I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto. People don’t tip toe around race, and the fact that there is absolutely no diversity on the street or in the classroom makes it that much more likely that someone is going to say something to you. I think the big difference is that when an Italian person comments on my skin, 9 times out of 10 they are not insulting me. They either want to learn about me or they’re just simply complimenting me. That has never been the case in America.
My parents raised me in a way that allowed me to see people for who they are, not the color they were. For years I didn’t know I was black, and I didn’t know that all of my friends were white. I just knew who I was and that these were people I got along with. It wasn’t until middle school that someone pointed out to me that I was sitting with the wrong people. At the time I had no clue what they were talking about. I was sitting with the people I had grown up with. It turned out the people I was supposed to be sitting with were the other students of color, and thus began the downward spiral of trying to figure out who I was supposed to be, and what I had to become I order to be liked—but that’s a conversation for a different post. However, the lesson I learned from all of that still comes full circle. You cannot sound Black and you cannot act Black. Just because I’m Black doesn’t mean I’m from the hood, and if you are, more power to you! Just because my skin is brown doesn’t mean I’m illiterate, I can probably read and write better than most of the kids here. Just because I am a darker shade doesn’t mean I am more ghetto than a lighter skinned person. Just because I am darker than my friend doesn’t mean I’m from Nigeria (I get that all the time).
There’s a joke in one of my classes, that I may be the only black person, but I am the most cultured, refined, and elegant student that the professor and the students have ever met. The fact that everyone finds it funny irks me a little as well, but they might be laughing because the teacher may or may not be flirting with me (that’s another story). What keeps my head up is that I know who I am, and I know who I want to be. If that means I have to educate a few people of that along the way, so be it. I know that the skin I’m in is unique. From all the people I see desperately trying to tan in the sun, I know that being a person of color is finally in style. Ankle-strap shoes, however, will NEVER be in style!