The Shades of Me

OLIVIA PAOLUZZI-BROWN

THE SHADES OF ME

My first encounter with racism was at the age of six. I tend to have a difficult time accurately recalling events from my childhood. However, this one in particular has since become an involuntary memory frequently resurfacing my mind. “Brown skin breaks things” a boy in my daycare repeated to me. I didn’t understand the implications of the words he spoke. But, standing there in his line of fire, laughing as he pointed to my skin; I knew it wasn’t decent. I remember observing the silence from adults that were supposed to take care of me, protect me, advocate for me. This schedule of unanticipated slurs persisted for quite some time. So did the silence. I remember the anxiety I felt, fearing further torment. Except when I was six I didn’t know anxiety yet. I knew stomach aches that felt like ocean eddies. Chest pains tight like stress balls under the grip of a hand. These feelings built sidewalks that paved streets for the future path of my deteriorating self-worth. I’m not here to place all the blame on this boy. He’s just a paragraph in my novel; I think in a lot of other peoples’ novels too. To my experience, I believe entertainment, advertising and consumerism have a responsibility in part of my shaped sense of self. They have a responsibility for influencing how the world sees me and people that look like me. Films where the person of colour is portrayed as the menace, the thug, the drug abuser, and the unpolished even or maybe a combination of them all. Shows with racial undertones and humour at the expensive of skin colour.

The limited availability of different multicultural and racial toys, dolls, and books. This is just where it starts. Where it should’ve been addressed. These outlets made it acceptable and gave friends and acquaintances the authority to behave in a discriminatory manner. I’d hear “what do you call a black person” jokes. I’d hear “It’s because your black” when I questioned why I couldn’t do something. I’d hear people use the N word, people call me the N word before I even knew its historical origin or meaning. As a child you’re constantly receiving and processing information that helps you understand and interpret the world around you. If you’re exposed to discrimination both subtly and overtly from numerous channels represented in your world, how does that shape you, how does it make you see yourself, make the world see you? Before this encounter I can’t remember ever realizing different skin colours. Black and brown were just colours in an 8-pack Crayola box, as was white. After it though, I came to realize colour is exactly what people saw in me.

Fast forward to elementary school. I can vividly remember coming home after school and setting up camp in my basement den. I’d spend my time, after finishing my homework, mindlessly watching shows and movies with the majority of the actors being white. I remember how they were always given opportunities first: they were the most competent, the most successful, most favourable, and the most beautiful. And what always pained me most: they were worthy of receiving the most love. This sadness quickly turned into confusion. “Why can’t someone like me get their dream job?”, or “Why can’t I be a captain of my sports team?” It didn’t make sense to me why people who looked like me were being underrepresented. The only thing that differed between us was our skin. I didn’t understand then that simply being a person of colour could justify less worth, dignity, respect and ultimately equality. This tribulation grew deep roots in my mind, too extensive to remove, to considerable to unsee. If you don’t change the bag when the garbage can is full it will inevitably overflow onto the floor. That’s what happened to me. After suppressing my feelings for so long, they eventually had nowhere to go but leave me. I was in the shower looking at my body and began to cry hysterically. I remember putting an excessive amount of soap on my loofa and scrubbing away at my skin. I tried for what it seemed like an eternity to scrub the colour off. By the time I realized it would never change, I was down half a bottle of soap and a body brick red. “I want to be white, Mom, so bad and I tried to wash my colour off and it won’t come off.” My exact words spoken in my unfortunate state. My mom did everything she could to comfort me. Change the way I saw myself but like I said, those roots were just too deep. Following this, I experienced more incidences of discrimination. Except this time I was fully aware what was happening, how I was being singled out. I had a friend in elementary school who came top three with me in a school track and field race. The teacher said “You think I’m going to let two black people race.” I reported it to the school, nothing was done. No one believed me, stood up for me, or for her.

For a while in my early teens I was made fun of for having a white mother, accused of being adopted because I didn’t look like her. They tried to take away my identity as a black person because “You’re only half black.” Black is Black. No matter the shade. No one gets to determine the blackness you are and the blackness you feel. I won’t divulge into every unique experience I’ve been through. I understand the degree in which I’ve experienced racism is far milder than those who have historically and presently experience. However, my experiences are valid and they do matter. The recent events coming to light aren’t novel.

Let me say this again: THE RECENT EVENTS COMING TO LIGHT AREN’T NOVEL. Interpersonal racism, institutional racism, and structural racism have been present for centuries and continue to be an integral part in the oppression of Black people. It’s naive to assume the issues surrounding police brutality, violence, murder and injustice are new. Racism starts with the comment made in school that was never addressed, followed by an opportunity for a lesson to be learnt that no one stepped up to teach, and results in discrimination in the workplace that was never brought to attention. By this point there is literally no excuse for you not to be informed, be knowledgeable and utilize the resources available to help change how our world and systems treat our Black men and woman. You’re responsible for your own research. Look at petitions, organizations, businesses, entrepreneurs, music artists, visual artists, podcasts, movies, shows, documentaries, books and more. There is something you can learn every day. Something you can do to contribute EVERY DAY. If you can UberEats for your dinner, buy a coffee every morning, and still don’t think you’re responsible for helping Black lives, you’re part of the problem. If you can spend hours watching Netflix and Youtube but can’t watch an informative documentary, you’re part of the problem. If you can read comments on a post, statuses and text messages but can’t read an educational non-fiction, I’ll say it again, YOU’RE PART OF THE PROBLEM.

I share my story because someone should have been there to stand up for me. Someone should have been advocating for every little boy and girl who grew up being discriminated against, believing the colour of their skin is wrong. I share my story because I’m grieving. I wanted to touch on grief briefly before I close. I’m growing extremely frustrated and fed- up with people diminishing one another’s grief during this time. Some people are developing this sense of authority to define the degree in which people can feel and experience grief. To put it this way: if you’re on a sports team and one of your teammates scores a goal, you collectively as a team are going to feel a sense of communal joy. The same goes for if you’re a spectator rooting for the victory of your favourite team. When they lose, you feel a sense of loss because you value that team and care about the players. This same concept is transferable to the Black community. I don’t have to have a relative or direct relation to someone who has been murdered due to police brutality to feel grief. If you’re a person of colour, you’re going to grieve regardless because it’s YOUR community you care about and have collective ties in shared experience and tied ancestral roots. The degree in which each person feels grief depends on that individual person.

We have no authority to tell people when they can or cannot grieve. This goes for white people too: they’re allowed to grieve and be upset. Please stop dictating who should/can feel what. Grief surfaces energy, evokes deep reflection. It reminds us what’s important to us. When were reminded of this, we can reflect and strategize how we can move forward to become better and stronger. Let people grieve. Let people feel the weight of our global pain resting on their shoulders. The weight of centuries of racism. Grief brings awareness, and we are in dire need of some enlightenment. I’m grateful that we have so many platforms to spread awareness, information and resources. However, it doesn’t stop with re-sharing. It doesn’t stop with posting on your story or going to just one protest. It takes dedication, time and commitment. This work is ongoing. If you’re uncomfortable with the brutal history of slavery, lynching, and continued oppression of Black people, you need to step up. If you wouldn’t want the same history to repeat itself for your friends, your family and your future children, you need to step up. We need to remember the events of history but we must also work to change the future. We need to remember those who suffered before us so we can protect and educate those that will come after.

Bio

Hello, my name is Olivia Paoluzzi-Brown. I’m a 23-year old mixed race woman, Italian and African American, living in East Vancouver. From a young age I’ve always been inspired by creating. I’ve explored a variety of different avenues since then like sewing, jewelry making, dance, theatre, crafting and design. However, my greatest passions have always been expressive arts: more specifically, writing/poetry writing and visual arts. The arts have given me a platform to openly communicate and convey how I’m feeling where I may not have otherwise felt comfortable or safe doing so. It’s been a long journey, but I’m finally coming to love and accept myself as a black woman. I love how loud and fiery I can be when I’m passionate. I love my tight curls and the frizz that accompanies it, I love the shade of my skin, and I love my facial features. Being part of the black community is culture, history, resilience, connection, support, love and pride. I’m dedicated to continually contribute, grow, and learn within it.