Signals and Shields of My Blackness
Words by Erika DeShay
My Blackness is both a signal and a shield.
My parents raised a girl who was nothing but proud of who she was. Black Raggedy Ann, Andy and Barbie, Betty Boop, a lovely brown Santa Claus brought us our gifts. The house was safe and brown all around, a shield that enveloped me as I went to bed at night.
Outside was a different story. Living in a predominantly white neighborhood, with access to the kinds of schools my parents worked hard for us to attend, the Blackness became a different kind of shield. In my home, I didn’t need protection, but out in the world, the shield went up and I went inward. You don’t want to give away too much, say too much, feel too much. It would always lead to crying.
I had to protect myself because outside my house, my Blackness was a signal. It was a signal of the kind of music I listened to, the kind of food I ate, the kind of attitude I was most likely to have. I had to explain to many White people why I talked the way I did (it was never quite Black enough for their liking, making me an "Oreo"), or explain why I was in the same advanced class they were in, or why I got accepted to the same college they applied but didn’t get in to.
As a teacher, my Blackness serves the same two functions. I am at once signaling my students and colleagues and shielding myself. I’ve only taught in predominantly White schools. At first, I felt my shield go up as I got invited to be observed so that I could be a signal that the school was multicultural, diverse. When the work of dismantling the biased school system began in districts all around the country and my state, the signal went off: Ask Erika. She’s Black. She should be involved. It was an assumption that happened to be right: I wanted in on dismantling that system. I wanted to work to make things better for every student who walked in the school. I just didn’t want to be the voice of all Black people who have ever Blacked in the United States. I could only speak for myself. I put the shield up, pushed back any anger or frustration, and put on a happy face to be a helper.
Talking about race became the most important part of my classroom. I wasn’t just going to teach English. I was going to help my students break down their preconceived notions of race before they became too ingrained. I wanted to show them they could break through shields and that not all signals are accurate. How many times has the car in front of you had its right turn signal on only to continue driving forward? Although it was hard, I broke down my shield in front of my students to let them in. I showed them the girl that fought to be called Brown because that was the actual color of her skin. I showed them the teenager who tried harder than all her other classmates to impress teachers her friends didn’t have to worry about impressing. I showed them the young adult that told college classmates she had earned her way in, just like everyone else, not because she signaled a need to fill a quota.
Talking about race was never hard for me. My parents talked about race all the time. How could they avoid it? They had children who would leave their safe space and enter a world that is always looking for signals. My parents never directly told me that I needed a shield. I’m sure their conversation with my brothers was different. Instead, they built me up, made me strong. They pushed the importance of education and accidentally raised a teacher. They loved fiercely and directly and put up with no nonsense. They built me a shield.
These days in particular, in the midst of one global pandemic, another more pervasive pandemic is being highlighted. And I’ve been crying. I’ve been crying because the world continues to remind me and my Black brethren that there is no shield strong enough to protect us all. I’ve been crying because my shield has cracked in ways I don’t feel can be repaired easily. I’ve been crying because signals are getting crossed and lives are being lost to systems that don’t care about our shields. When people see me, they don’t know my parents’ story or that I’m a teacher or that I love to bake or that I want to be the next Maya Angelou. They only see skin. That skin is a signal. I’ve been crying because I don’t know who will see my signal and turn right, and who will keep driving forward.
About the Author:
Erika DeShay is an English teacher who lives in the Denver area. She has been writing since she could talk, and teaching for 20 years. When not reading or writing, she loves to bake and hopes to open a pie shop in the future.
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