Chocolate Milk in a Racist City

I don’t often speak about what it’s like to live in a racist city. The words live in the crook of my jaw wrestling to come out, but fear acts like a cage. 

If you don’t think Canada is racist, you’re one of the lucky ones. Most days the microaggressions stoke a small fire of rage inside me — easily quelled by the fear. So instead of yelling, I laugh. That’s easier. And safer. 

But there are days where a different kind of fear takes over, and instead of uncomfortable laughter all I can do is make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. 

Here’s the thing: I wish I could run at night. I love the cool air, and the soft lights. I like the quiet. But whenever I run under the stars, I always have to listen for angry footsteps behind me.
This isn’t unfounded fear. This is real. And not just in Georgia.

I don’t wear sweats in public. No matter how cold I am, you won’t see me wear a hat that obscures my face. And never a hood (unless of course it’s attached to a trendy coat. My saving grace is that thugs don’t wear vintage.)

In a lot of ways, I am lucky. I am small, and a woman, and seem pretty unthreatening. These things can help. My African heritage is cultural, not genetic. My skin is paler than my sister’s (but not pale enough). I taught myself to be white at a very young age. In culture, vernacular, and presentation. (When someone told me drinking chocolate milk made your skin dark, I stopped drinking milk. I think I was six.) Every time a friend says they forget I am a minority, I secretly hope that’s how the rest of the world sees me too. I’ve created a version of myself that is usually only victim to objectifying comments (« What are you? » « You’re so exotic. » « Ugh I wish I had a tan like yours. ») 

Yet, I am not lucky enough.

I had to leave my former neighbourhood because it wasn’t safe for me. When I was teased for moving to « Yuppieville » I didn’t know how to say it was because here, I’m less fearful for my life. That in London, I am fearful for my life.

In the countless meetings, phone calls, and tear-filled visits with the London Police Force begging for help, I was forced to realize they don’t have my back. That slogan only counts for few. 

Instead they told me to let them know « if it got worse ». 

I didn’t have the [heart, guts, courage] to ask what their definition of « worse » was.   There were very, very few options of what « worse » could have been.

I’ve had a hard time looking at the content about Ahmaud Arbery; it is a reminder that once this pandemic is over and many go about their days feeling safe, I never will. People of colour never will.
And that is a hard truth to swallow right now. 

So while people praise this country as I sit here thinking about all the ways I’ve tried to remove the colour from my skin, I wonder who I would be if I kept drinking chocolate milk.