Blackness is the constant juggle of two-ness:

W.E.B. DuBois said it best in his book The Souls of Black Folk, “One ever feels his twoness, -- An American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideas in one dark body, whose strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.”

The duality of blackness is unique to the individual, but in all cases has elements of benefit and detriment.  As a black woman who was raised in middle class suburbia, I have the dual consciousness of being Black and growing up with American middle class values, which are traditionally based on eurocentric, heteronormative, Christian frameworks.  While growing up in the suburbs came with opportunity, there were many times I felt that my blackness was a barrier to the full access and potential benefits of those liberties.  Experiences in this microcosm of duality have shaped me as an educator and professional.

Comments such as "I don't have a problem with black people, I just don't like n---s. But you're different, you're not like them," were not abnormal.  As a person with dual consciousness you are often volun-told to be the spokesperson of your primary identity and used as an example to promote inherently racist ideologies; Black people (and other marginalized groups) have lots of opportunities, because of the Civil Rights Act, they just have to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.  Such statements and ideas exemplify some of my dual experiences during my K-12 education.  Having exposure to the opportunities that came from suburbia, like well-funded schools and park space, was a privilege, but didn't come without reminders of my blackness: 1. Having a middle class background made me palatable to society, because I was able to speak and move within different socioeconomic groups, 2. Though palatable I was sometimes believed to be scary, because people like me (Black and female) are assumed to have bad attitudes or issues with anger, and 3. My prowess in athletics wasn't due to hard work or talent, but an unfair physical advantage, like having an extra muscle in my thigh, that was allegedly proven by (pseudo)science. In spite of such hurdles to my personal development, I was able to use these experiences to work in my favor as an educator.

Education is my realm, being in the classroom is my happy place. The duality of being part of the suburban middle class and being black has provided me with the cultural capital to engage with diverse groups of learners. Being a suburban snob, as my granny lovingly called my nuclear family, came with privileges that resulted from the hard work of my parents, who grew up without similar resources, to create a life of opportunity for me and my brother. This socioeconomic position has allowed me to relate to learners from various locales, including neighborhoods similar to my hometown, and my blackness has helped me reach the hearts of students whose home culture is not considered the dominant American culture.  The ability to juggle an understanding of the dominant middle class culture that has influenced and maintained traditional American values in the United States has allowed me to be what Gloria Anzaldúa refers to as bridge; a bridge between education professionals and learners whose teachers do not walk the same fine line of twoness.  I feel a special responsibility and kinship with learners who look like me, especially when I witness them being punished for expressing their frustration in a way that their teacher doesn’t understand, or for a certain style of dress that doesn’t follow the expectations of the dominant culture.  I make it a point to remember how it felt to have my blackness held up to my face as a kid, so that I do not participate in punishing a young learner for being who they are naturally.  In professional settings and spaces where I am the learner, I still tread lightly so that I am not labeled as angry when calling out suspect rhetoric or ideology during class, or labeled as difficult when I have high expectations of excellence in the workplace.

The existential crisis of juggling twoness is exhausting, as it often begs one to be a reluctant  spokesperson for the Black community, a bridge between multiple communities, or become a double-dutch expert who does their best to please both parts of their existence, all with a rehearsed and expected smile on your face.