My friends story about what it’s like to be Black in America

I first had the privilege of meeting Alanna Lund two years ago when she asked if would take newborn photos of her first baby. She and I have connected even more as our country has struggled over the deaths of so many Black Lives. Alanna has a way of communicating beautifully and educating others about the issues of racism. I wrote her one day to ask if she would like to share her story with racism in the DMV on my blog. She is also expecting her 2nd baby, so we highlighted the beauty of her, her bump, and her beautiful brown baby boy that will be arriving this year. Thank you for visiting my site and taking the time to read Alanna’s story.  

From Alanna,

I was 11 when I first understood what it meant to be Black in America. My Dad was coming home from work, just like he did every day, and was followed by a police officer. As he was driving through our predominantly White neighborhood, the officer pulled him over and proceeded to pin him on the ground and arrest him for a crime he did not commit. This happened in broad daylight, a few hundred feet from our house, and in plain view for everyone in our neighborhood to see. At 11, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. This was my dad. A hard-working, intelligent engineer who was a man of deep faith. How could he be accused of this and mistreated this way? Because he was Black and he “fit the description” of the man they were looking for. He asked if he could call home to his wife, but they denied him any calls. They gave him ZERO benefit of the doubt. I’ll never forget driving with my mom to go pick him up from the county jail. My mind was trying to piece it all together - it just didn’t make sense. When we arrived at the jail they gave insincere apologies and put the blame on my dad. Little did they know that this event would be forever ingrained in my 11-year-old mind. I learned that day that no matter how well-educated you are, where you live, how much money you have, all the ways you try to beat the system, that if you are Black in America, you will be treated as less than. 

So much has happened in the past few months that has opened a door to some painful memories I’ve needed to revisit. For me, growing up in a predominantly White area, I experienced many micro-aggressions. But the crazy part is that until recently I didn’t even realize that what I had experienced was actually racism. It was the norm to me. An overarching theme that was firmly embedded in me was that in order to fit in and be accepted, I had to be “less Black” and more like those around me. People often made comments like, “is that your real hair?”, or “you don’t sound black”, or “you don’t act like them”. I hated it, but at the same time a small part of me felt grateful because it allowed me to get to the places I wanted to go. I remember going to sleepovers and hiding my hair bonnet in my sleeping bag and slipping it on after the lights went out just so I could avoid the questioning and the weird looks. I’ve had racist jokes made to me and in front of me, I’ve had people ask me if I have a college education, on many occasions I’ve had to deal with being stared at when I walk into a restaurant with my White husband, and so on. I’ll never forget a time in middle school when a boy told me I looked like an ape, it sadly made me feel so ashamed and insecure about my skin. I remember after that starting to use bleaching creams, shaving any facial hair I had, and doing things to look “less Black”. I’m so grateful that I’ve come to a place of love and acceptance and a deep appreciation for being Black. Today, I’m proud of my skin color and my heritage, but it’s been a hard and long road to get here. I can still find myself holding back parts of me or changing how I talk, code-switching, in order to not be labeled or perceived a certain way. These may feel like seemingly small things, but when this is your life every day for decades, it takes a toll. 

Becoming a mother has pushed me to dive even deeper into self-acceptance and self-love. Like any parent, I want my daughter to grow up being confident in who she is and accepting all parts of herself — knowing that she is beautifully and wonderfully made. As a Black mother, that means I have to work even harder to make it clear to her that she is accepted for exactly who she is in this world, no matter what others may say or do. It means educating her on Black history, introducing a diversity of books, dolls, shows, in which she sees people who look like her (and like me) thriving. It means making sure the friends we are around, the schools we look at, and the neighborhood we live in have people who look like us in them. I’m so grateful for the ways motherhood has pushed me to use my voice to fight for change and to love myself and my Blackness fully. I hope and pray to raise my children to learn from the get-go that they are worthy, loved, valuable, capable of fulfilling the biggest of dreams, and fully accepted for who they are and the skin they’re in.

I hope that this time produces real change. It’s amazing to see so many for the first time really understanding and embracing the call to speak up, take action and make change. It starts with each individual taking a sober look at themselves and be willing to make the necessary changes. I have so much hope for the future, but I know it will take hard work. My prayer is that one day Black lives will not only matter, but will be praised, valued and honored the way they should be. This is a movement, not a moment and I hope we do not grow weary in fighting for what is right.