The “Black” Writer

When I got off the bus in middle school, my mother stood by our glass storm door because she knew of my arrival. She stood there as she watched me walk up to our long driveway and then onto the sidewalk that led to our front door. Once I entered through the door, she went and sat in our den. I always wondered why my mom, sometimes my dad, would stand by the door when I got home or wait outside with me in the mornings to get on and off the bus.

I stayed back to make sure I locked the door then joined her. She was sitting on the couch in her usual spot, and instead of asking me how my day was, she told me I wasn't allowed to eat Skittles anymore, my favorite candy. Now I knew that I was partially the reason why my dentist stayed well-funded, but I didn't think it would've come to the extreme that my mother would cut me off from my favorite treat. But this had nothing to do with the dentist.

A young Black boy was shot.

Respectfully known as Trayvon Martin, this young boy went to a gas station to get himself a snack, and as he walked back, he never made it home. At that young age (13), I realized my life could be taken away from me at any moment; maybe that's why my parents always and continued to wait for and with me in our driveway.

I didn't understand when I was younger why I couldn't have this candy anymore as my mom retold the news she heard. I never cared to ask because I didn't want to be disobedient. But as I learned more over time and grew up, Skittles had a new meaning to me now. It wasn't my favorite treat but a snack that held the last touch of a young Black boy. Skittles then became a new metaphor for me; Skittles were like fiction, something I couldn't have the freedom to hold because of my race.

His story was told all over as it. It became a moment in history, a topic discussed everywhere. It ignited hatred and fear into the Black community while I knew others celebrated this tragedy in my head and heart. Stories of police brutality, murder, discrimination, inequality, racial injustice, and hatred began to arise from my Black brothers and sisters. As time progressed, we all knew there was a battle we had to continue to fight and a message about our story to get across—one that seemed never-ending.

But I didn't ask for that to be my story or a story I had to tell. I didn't want the weight from the outside to become the author of my story or the stories that I wrote for others and myself.

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I was in my senior year of high school, and I knew I had talent in writing. As I could barely pass any math or science electives, English never stressed me out when it came to my grades. I was excited to receive grades from my AP Lit teacher when she returned our essays because no matter what percentage sat at the top right corner of the paper, I was happy to have notes to fall back on to improve my work. But it also felt good and humbled me to receive praise on something I accomplished well in, which was my writing.

Yet the hatred of Black lives made it (and makes it) mentally challenging for me as a creative to do my craft respectfully and how I want it. I want to write a fictional world for a Black protagonist or any protagonist and make them go anywhere and do anything; even someone of that race wouldn't do or be like that in reality.

I'm scared to do that, though. I'm scared to receive backlash on my work. I would want to avoid conversations like this:

"That will never happen to a black girl. It's not realistic to what someone of her color would go through."

My response back would be, "Well it's not supposed to, it's fiction."

"But even within a fiction story that has Black characters, there still has to be a sense of truth. A sense of reality in the piece or no one will respect it, no one will read it."

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The day of the 59th Presidential Inauguration was historical to me. I saw a writer perform a spoken word, and she just so happened to be Black. My attention that day was away from the Zoom class I was in; it was all directed to Amanda Gorman, the now famously known youngest inaugural poet. When I saw my profession, I was ecstatic, my passion being broadcasted all over media platforms and from societal communities.

So, then I began to question the standards of others wanting to read stories—stories that represented and reflected the Black community by someone from the Black community.

This issue that I thought was all made up in my head seemed authentic as they rejoiced and praised the poet for her talent. In my mind, I believed that it would become more complicated for me to tell a story that would be recognized for my talent first, not my race.

I know I shouldn't feel like I would have to tell my story (something I'm still discovering) to reach the audiences that my pieces or works will relate to and become successful. But when I write about a specific topic, something personal to me and how I see it, sometimes it seems as if I'm going against my own culture and race.

When I wrote a piece about natural hair for an ethical and cultural significance class, I chose to write on a topic in which the Black community is aware. However, I wanted to approach it from another angle, an angle related to my story. I wrote about the natural hair community and how its glorification of Black hair can break down Black women in their natural journey, how there's a judgment within a community that's supposed to uplift one another.

I wrote about that because I struggled with my hair before I had finally learned to do it on my own. So often, when I was younger, I got used to my mom or a salonist doing my hair that when we couldn't afford to go as often as we did, I had to rely on my mom to do my hair. When I got older, and my mom had to handle things personal to her, I had to learn for myself, but I didn't know where to start. If I cared about my appearance that day throughout high school, I would put heat on my hair to straighten it—it was (and still is) my favorite style. Any other day I would wear my hair in a straight bun.

It wasn't until I saw my best friend in high school wear what she called her natural hair, and it looked beautiful. I decided to go natural after I graduated but didn't become serious about it until about the end of my freshman year of college. That's when I also found out about protective styles. How someone installed a style to me or wore their style didn't bother me because I knew what it could do for someone's hair, yet it bothered some. I found out that there is some slight judgment on how someone wore a style within the natural hair community because it didn't look "neat" or natural. I wanted to bring light to an issue within a community that shows support and uplifts one another but doesn't notice how their words can be harmful even if meant to be kind.

But I felt bad writing it.

It felt like a piece that needed to be shared, but it isn't or wasn't something the Black community wants and wanted to read—a Black person speaking negatively on their own community and race. Maybe it was because of the class that I was in that I felt like I had to write about a subject like this for a good grade, but it made sense to me for my point of view on a community I'm in be brought out from the unknown. How if I were to do my favorite protective style of box braids in my hair, I would receive weird looks because the parts would look messy, or the braids wouldn't be the same size. Writing about it seemed like a way to vent how I feel, not to bring harm to a community.

Knowing how often it is to see communities people look up to for support are the same communities that can bring them down or pin them against one another, I wouldn't want the natural hair community to come after me. I wanted (and want) to avoid hearing how someone such as myself should be uplifting the community and how our hair is our crown; these are all things I know, things that have already been written. I wanted to be different and write what felt right to me, but I also understood that my race had to come before my talent in the truth I want to write about.

I have the freedom as a writer to do what I want, say what I want, write what I want even when it's not real. I want to uplift the stories of the Black community, be a writer in which the community can go to and support what I write, but I don't want the social construction of race to factor in why I write my stories one way or another. I want to stand out, not to have my race acknowledged, but my words analyzed.

If I wanted to write something purely fictional, it would have to be centered on the story of a Black girl or boy. If I don't, I would be robbing the chance to tell a Black story. It's not an insufficient focus to have; in all actuality, it's the kind of stories I wish I had growing up. The kind where I read a character's description, and it matched mine, but there is an added pressure and form of support that will come based on what I write. I don't want people to expect anything from me regarding the subject matter; I want them to expect a well-written story from a fantastic author and writer who so happens to be Black.

There's no disrespect or disregard for writing these kinds of stories because I absolutely will. But writing is healing for me, a way to express myself. Writing about trauma is damaging; it hurts the storyteller in me from wanting to feel free. I shouldn't have to write about the tragedies of a young Black boy or girl; that's heartbreaking. I shouldn't have to write about a Black person making history that should already be celebrated, not even just within the Black community.

I'm trying to find a bridge between writing fiction, a form of writing that makes me happy, that became a treat to me that I didn't want to be revoked. I still want my work to appeal and support the communities I'm part of and that they can see themselves in my story and say,

"The character(s) reflect who I am, and they just so happen to be Black."

I'm not the voice of any community. I may not have any authority to write about everything, but I can feel free to write about anything with fiction. Fiction feels like a treat, something I crave. Yet, it's something I can't have if I become the "Black" writer. There's a never-ending joy and proudness I have when it comes to being Black. I love that I was born this way, it's a blessing, but I was also blessed with a talent to write. There's a need in me to want to stand out in my own unique way, not in the most obvious way. I want the art of writing to be celebrated as much as it was when Amanda Gorman stood in front of President Barak Obama, former First Lady Michelle Obama, our first madam Vice President and more. That her words held power in the story, she told rather than the way she looked.

I dream of that day in which someone will recognize what I write and would say,

"Zipporah is an amazing writer, and she's Black."