In 2000, when my dad told my mom they were moving to Atlanta for work, she pictured city life. Five months pregnant, she imagined taking me to city parks, exploring local restaurants and all the things she did growing up in Northwest Philadelphia. She did not get that. Instead, she got life outside Atlanta — only 45 minutes away, but still very different. Trading skyscrapers for cow fields, small family businesses for large chains, and diversity, for well…homogeneity, this suburban town became the landscape I grew up in. Originally, I knew nothing different than the small community I called home. It wasn’t until my later teenage years that I realized how much my confidence had suffered from growing up as a brown girl in the conservative South.
My town’s slogan is “honoring our heritage, forging our future.” At first glance, this phrase appears sweet and welcoming, until you do your research. Our “heritage” revolves around the Civil War and being an important victory site for the Confederacy. I live next to the battlefield site, and multiple times a year, locals perform a reenactment as if it is going to change the outcome of the war.
I recognized the differences between my peers and I at a young age. My brown skin and curly hair created enough contrast, but my height also generated a lot of attention. Standing tall at 6’1’’, I always towered over others. In preschool, I remember my classmates telling me to go into the wheelchair accommodation restroom because it was the only one big enough for me. Throughout elementary school, people bullied me and accused me of being dumb. Some classmates believed I was held back a grade because I was “too tall for my age.” All I wanted to do was blend in with everyone else. I envied and idolized my blonde-haired, blue-eyed best friend because she was the beauty standard. She could dress like multiple Disney princesses or characters and look just like them, while I had to use my imagination. My parents always had conversations with me about my worth and beauty, but I was stuck between two worlds: the one at home and the one outside.
The word “assimilation” perfectly describes my middle school experience. Being the only Black person in most of my advanced classes, I felt everyone watching me. I needed to prove my worth. I needed to prove that I was just as smart. I needed to prove that I was just like them.
In eighth grade, my history teacher told our class he was so happy that we had so much diversity. In a class of 25 kids, there were two Black students and one Asian student. During that same week, he told us that the Confederate Flag stood for states rights and southern pride, not slavery or racism. My ancestors were beaten, raped and worked to death under that flag. I was speechless, but I kept my mouth shut.
During these times, I followed the lead of my friend group. I straightened my hair, wore their favorite brands, and remained quiet during conversations about viewpoints I didn’t agree with. Looking back, I’m upset I never stood up for my beliefs or spoke my opinions, but, at 12 years old, all I wanted to be was accepted. I will never forget the time my mother, my ultimate defender, played rap music during a carpool to make a point about being proud of Black culture. Current BriannaRose would have jammed along with her despite the stares. Middle school BriannaRose wanted to roll down the window and yeet herself out.
I let certain comments and situations go unchecked. For my 13th birthday, I planned a Disney costume party. I wanted to be Ariel, my favorite princess at the time, but changed my mind when I was told I should dress like someone who looked “more like me.” I ended up being Pocahantas because while I am not Native American, at least she was also brown. During a retreat, a group of girls mocked “Black names” right in front of me, then told me it was not supposed to be offensive. Multiple people questioned my ethnicity because I did not fit their image of a Black person or because I “sounded white”. These conversations led me to eventually realize that I was letting myself be impacted by a toxic environment.
When high school came around, I attended an international studies school that had enough diversity to make me go into culture shock. However, being forced out of my comfort zone made me realize how beautiful my differences are. I had a friend group made up of different opinions, different backgrounds, and most importantly, different colors. I finally had the opportunity to express myself, dress the way I wanted and listen to the music I wanted, without being judged. For the first time outside of my house, I felt accepted. This newfound confidence would help me grow into the person I am today.
I would love to end my story with the fairytale happy ending of everything being right and amazing, but that is not the truth. The truth is, racism, subtle or blatant, still exists. In recent years, I’ve been told my accomplishments are only amazing because I am Black, and I’ve feared being profiled. My old demons still come to haunt me, too. When people stare at me, I always wonder why. Is it because of my height? Is it because of my fashion sense? Or is it because of my skin color? While nothing is perfect, there is still happiness in my ending: I know my worth. With this sense of self love, I can share my story and fight against stigmas, because this brown girl that grew up in the South knows her value.