Dear Black Girl; Vol 1

Dear Black Girl, do not be afraid to embrace your roots for when the roots run deep there is no reason to fear the wind.

I like to think that kids have it easy. And I think in hindsight they really do. Honestly when else are you going to have someone to bathe you, feed you, drive you from A to B, nourish, love and care for you everyday for 18 years. But, when you are growing through what you go through the world often seems larger than life and you are living in your own life’s drama filled with the highs of chuck-e-cheese play dates and the lows of pretending you’re the star in a dramatic music video singing through the rain in the backseat of the car. I don’t know why kids seem to put the weight of the world on their tiny little shoulders (or if that was just me). 

Needless to say, growing up without one side of my roots, made it really challenging to comprehend some of the things that I have experienced. Growing up ‘white’ made me angry towards my blackness because I had no perspective of what that really truly meant, and I could bear no resemblance from people who looked like me in my community. And while in recent years I have slowly begun to learn a little bit more about my ancestry I wish I could have met this side of myself with a smile, a hug, and enduring love 25 years ago. For I spent many of those years lingering in a personal turmoil of rejection, and disgust - for these visible features were at times the source of my life’s biggest growing pains.

When my parents separated I was removed from a world of diversity, and a sense of wholeness and challenged to find peace in a world of uniformity as my sense of identity in belonging became fractured with the ending of my family as I knew it. I was confronted with a reality of learning how to challenge the status quo simply by being an outlier, the outlier. It is not lost on me the stark contrast of my realities as a young girl and the difficulties of navigating my social life. Without really realizing it I was suffering from an identity crisis of being subtly rejected from this uniform world that I was trying to assimilate to while also dismissing the things that made me this outlier.

Sidebar over, let’s get back to the bulk of it. Roots. The basic cause, source or origin. Something established deeply and firmly. So the question becomes how can we grow roots when our branches are fractured?

As a second generation Canadian and a little bit of a self centred kid, trust me I’ve changed, the last thing I wanted to do was learn about either side of my ancestry. Until one year in elementary school we had to do a poster-board presentation on our family history. Well, my mothers side of the family is British. My Grandma and Grandpa, immigrated to Canada on February 14, 1961 in St Johns, New Brunswick after sailing over on the SS France. And like so many other people in my class I shared my family history, and the history of Britain that I could learn through books because computers were dinosaurs back then, and brought some shortbread cookies to bring the presentation to life. #snacksarelife.

I’m not bringing this story up because there’s something wrong with that scenario. What an incredible bonding experience to learn about some of the things that my grandparents have been through and their experiences. I am so grateful I was about to share that with them, and that I can continue to learn from them. But, it was a lost educational experience for both me and my peers to learn about the island country of Trinidad and Tobago where my father and grandmother immigrated from. And it was a poorly constructed task by my teacher that didn’t leave room to acknowledge that people may come from two completely different sets of backgrounds and who the hell are we to tell them to report on just one.

If we put this into a broader perspective of education I think the system really failed us growing up. I didn’t learn anything about Black history in Canada. I briefly learned about Indigenous history in the 4th grade because I had an incredible teacher who knew that history was the history of Canada’s dark past. I only really began to understand a little bit about Black history when I was in University, but even then it is a one month celebration of a race and culture that should be celebrated 365, especially when it’s your own. And that is the lesson that I wish I could have learned as a little girl 25 years ago.

It wasn’t so long ago that the government of Canada dropped their racial discrimination immigration system that from 1910-1967 barred immigrants into Canada from races that were deemed undesirable. And in a way that is what it at times feels like to be Black in North American society - undesirable, less than, and at it’s worst like nothing. So, we have to understand that as more information comes to light, and more Black Canadians become aware of their history there is going to be some deep generational trauma that comes to the surface. Remember that whatever reaction is displayed is completely warranted, there is no right or wrong way to manage a reaction and telling others how to act is a complete invalidation of another’s being.

And as we are all learning let’s not question the what behind the things that are happening that seem negative and let’s consider the why. Why is there such a negative connotation to the word Black, and why are marginalized communities inherently viewed as more prone to being criminals? Why are black people continuing to be oppressed? Why has this cycle of systemic racism perpetuated in our lifetimes? Why have we been socialized to joke, and sing, and taunt people because of their skin colour? And what can we do to be better?

The thing is that when you are biracial you never fit into one box. I mean who are we to put people into these pretty little boxes covered with bows - but I have often found myself teetering this fine line of Black or White. You know like those surveys or tests where you have to check a box of racial identity, but you’re never allowed to pick more than one. By selecting just one I have always felt that I disrespect and dishonour one of my parents in the process. So, I have carefully curated my being to appease those around me. Suppressing my strong feelings and desires to not come across as too angry, or too much of a pushover as I have always tried to simply blend in.

It’s been a really weird balance trying to navigate how I interact, build relationships, and ultimately how I love myself. 

Dear Black Girl is an acknowledgement of the things that I may have shied away from in my youth, or the things that I might not have understood. It’s the acceptance of all of the parts of me that make me Shanice Marcelle. 

Before anyone starts to come at me I just want to say this. Yes, I realize that I am biracial and that being black is only one part of who I am. But, you have to realize that part of me is not who I grew up with nor who I was comfortable with. That part of me is having her own becoming, and in acknowledging her and giving space for her to find her voice I am giving space to my own healing. 

No, this movement is not about me. It never has been and I’m not trying to make it so. But in recognizing my own blackness and adding my voice to this issue in the ways that I know how, that is how I can ensure that this is a long lasting movement in my heart and soul. 

I have a lot of ideas swimming in my head of how I can be better for myself, my family, the youth and my community. Changes that I would like to see. Calls to action that should be implemented. I have immersed myself into being a part of the global conversation through podcasts and online discussions, and lending my voice to a committee to help enact meaningful change within Usports and the Canadian University sport community.

 But, as a starting point I’m here to take to writing in a way that I know is impactful and inspiring. Because I believe in the power of stories, and these have always been mine to share. So, I’m not sorry if you are tired about hearing me speak to these issues, because this is the life I have had to manage, learn and grow in. 

And maybe for the first time in my life I truly feel like I am becoming. 

Dear Black girl, you are home.