During my college years, I served as a Resident Assistant, primarily overseeing a floor filled with white freshmen women. One evening, while chilling in my dorm, one of the girls I often hung out with dropped by. She hailed from a small town nearby and had never really ventured out before, so I would offer her advice and listen to her concerns.
Then, it happened:
Girl: You’re not like other black people.
Me: silence, anticipating the forthcoming comment
Girl: You speak so well. You know what we call those other black people?
Me: Don’t —
Girl: Niggers.
Me: First off, don’t ever use that word. Secondly, if you say that around the wrong black person, you might end up regretting it.
Girl: But —
Me: Get out of my room, Sarah.
Okay, her name wasn’t Sarah, but it could have been. sigh I’ve had countless variations of this cringe-worthy conversation, but this girl actually crossed the line.
I suppose I fit the mold of the “well-spoken” black person that many white folks feel comfortable with. This phrase, often intended as a compliment, is really coded language implying, “You sound like us. You sound white.” I’ve heard this my whole life and frankly, I’m tired of white people tossing it my way as if it’s a compliment. It’s a racist stereotype, and I’m not here for it. I am black—proudly so. Just because I can communicate using proper grammar doesn’t mean anything beyond that.
When you express this so-called praise, realize that you’re not elevating me. In fact, you’re doing the opposite. You’re implying that all black people fit into one narrow stereotype. It’s as if you believe that meeting one of us gives you a pass to understand all of us. The reality is, most of you don’t know us at all. Did you know that only about 25% of white people have friends who are people of color? The truth is, you might think you have black friends, but if your relationship with them is just casual, you don’t really know them at all.
Let’s examine this: A coworker you share lunch with weekly? The bank teller you greet occasionally? The waitress at your go-to restaurant? The mailman? Your doctor? Seriously?! You end up labeling hundreds of “friends” without even knowing their last names. Ask yourself this: Do you ever go to their homes? Do you help each other out? Have they met your family?
Stop using the term “friends” so loosely. If our interaction is limited to a weekly lunch, I’m sorry, but I can’t call you my friend. I might label you as a coworker, and that’s about the extent of our connection.
This misconception is why you see my “white-sounding” way of speaking as an exception. You’re simply not familiar with diverse voices. Just as some white folks believe everything they see on news channels, you rely on limited portrayals of black lives. Much of what you hear is skewed, portraying us as lazy, illiterate criminals. It’s as if we lack aspirations for successful careers, value education, or wish to assimilate into mainstream society.
Now, let’s be clear: we don’t want to compromise our authenticity to make you feel comfortable. My command of language isn’t about blending in; it’s simply who I am. My mother communicates just like I do, and she taught me the importance of standing my ground. She also warned me about the inevitable challenges I’d face with white people. So, just a heads-up: don’t assume that because you feel comfortable around me, I feel the same way about you. Many black individuals have been let down too many times to easily trust.
It’s time to face facts: your comfort lies with other white people. So, let’s get real about the way I communicate—it doesn’t define who I am, nor does it encapsulate the richness of black identity. I’m not exceptional for being articulate. We, as black individuals, are multi-dimensional. Understanding this is crucial if you genuinely want to relate to us.
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In summary, the phrase “you speak so well” serves as a reminder of the biases still present in society. It’s time to break down those stereotypes and recognize the full spectrum of black experiences and identities.