In the middle of the night, between 30 and 31 May 2020, the Milwaukee protest against police brutality and in demand of justice for George Floyd, specifically, and other victims such as Breonna Taylor, had reached my neighborhood.  The previous few nights I could hear the protest; helicopters were in the air, there were sounds similar to gunshots, and ambulances and squad cars were rushing sporadically speeding down my street with lights and sirens blaring.  I didn’t sleep those nights, I was not at peace, because I was filled with concern that youths in the protests were somehow in danger.  I was worried about them, I was worried about any negative spin that would be placed on the protests.  I was worried that innocent youths attempting to protest peacefully would be interrupted by selfish opportunists masquerading as allies; I was mentally and emotionally ill with concern.  I didn’t know the exact location of the protest I was hearing, nor did I know how to use my talents and passions to be helpful, so I smudged and meditated until the sounds of first responders and protesting ceased for the night.  When the protest reached my street during the dates previously mentioned, I jumped out of bed and ran to the sidewalk in front of my building.  I could hear the youths marching toward me, led by community elders.  My heart was vibrating and my spirit was elevated.  As they came closer I felt my heart pounding more and more, simultaneously filling with happiness, warmth, and worry.  When they finally reached my position, I began sobbing, waving them on, offering words of gratitude.  I addressed as many young people as I could, offering them my appreciation for their strength and showering them with my maternal wishes that they take care and get home safely, “Thank you!  Don’t worry, queen, we will!”  It was overwhelming in the best way, to witness elders of the community leading so many young people, presumably in their late teens and early twenties, in a peaceful demonstration.  Besides joy, gratitude, and love, I felt despair and frustration that the centuries-old fight for black people’s right to exist was still necessary.  As a black woman born and raised in the United States, I refuse to speak about blackness on behalf of every black person, because our experiences are as rich and dynamic as the diaspora.  I can attest to, however, that each of us has been born with an unfair burden of constantly proving our humanity.

This age-old burden is not thoroughly discussed in the curriculum, but it is well-documented in government policies. To understand why any black person in the United States today would feel the need to prove their humanity, it is helpful to have historical context of how past policies have influenced American society’s perception of black peoples and the socioeconomic status of black peoples in the United States.  The three-fifths compromise, passed in 1787,  allowed for southern slave states, five at the time that especially benefited, to count three out of five slaves as one (free) person.  With this agreement, the five states most affected eventually had representative control in congress and were able to make adjustments to tax evaluations. The philosophical underpinnings of this legislation are fascinating, because on one hand the southern states wanted to be able to count each slave, as it  would have allowed them to gain more congressional representation than northern states, but on the other hand, adding each slave to the mainstream population would have increased the monies owed for taxes.  It is remarkable to note that to kidnap someone from their home, torture them into forced servitude, and sell them as livestock proves that the captives were viewed as something other than human; however, when there was an opportunity for the captor to benefit from the slightest recognition of their captives’ humanness, it is only recorded as three-fifths of a whole.  So, it was understood that there was “something human” about African slaves in the United States, but counting them as three fifths of a person legally and philosophically maintained their status of being less than human and therefore, acceptable to own as property.  Beginning with the Revolutionary War, African slaves in the United States and their descendants have served in all factions of the military, in part, with the hope that the government and white Americans would realize their humanity and treat them with fairness and equality.  They have also fought for space to become educated to prove their humanity as intelligent beings.

This idea that a black person is less than human has permeated American society, beginning with the government, as black people have had to fight for the basic human right to exist and for civil rights that ensure their status as human US citizens.  Today, social and economic inequities continue for black people in the United States.  These inequities begin to show as soon as childhood, in the education system.  As black people, we have to prove our humanity as intellectual beings by learning a history and language that are not ours and earning grades based on assignments with rules that were not created by us, such as a proper way to write an essay or deliver a speech.  In school, like other institutions, we are constantly playing by rules that penalize us when we do not perform “white” enough.  Even when we perform beyond the expectation, our intelligence and the validity of our work is still challenged.  

During a class discussion, I shared data I about the disproportionate number of planned parenthood locations with access to abortions in low-income black neighborhoods.  A classmate, who identified as white and female, accused me of making gross generalizations, because the small town they grew up in also had Planned Parenthood.  At the end of class, my professor would allow for final comments and by then I had found the article with the statistics I previously shared.  After reading the information explaining that predominantly black and low-income neighborhoods are about 13% of all neighborhoods, but have around 40% of Planned Parenthood locations offering abortions, my classmate said, “Oh my gosh, I never knew that!”  Another classmate, who identified as black and female said, “She just told you about the data she read and you attacked her saying that it couldn’t be true.  But, now that she read it straight from an article written by a white man you believe it?”  This interaction made me feel like an imposter who conjures up data to prove a point and did not belong in a graduate level class.  I remember feeling concerned about presenting like a difficult black woman who always finds something to complain about.  It wasn’t until I found the original source of the information I shared, that my classmate could have easily Googled themself, that I somehow felt vindicated, that I proved I belonged in the room, I proved my humanity.