On a warm April day in 1990, my family and I found ourselves in the parking lot of Grace Lutheran School on Long Island, New York. It was late in the afternoon, and the school day had long ended. My parents, visibly uneasy, were contemplating the logistics of a daily commute that would add significant time to their already lengthy trips to Manhattan. I, too, felt a mix of nerves and discomfort, apprehensive about changing schools and being so far from home.
As we approached the school, a Black woman greeted us at the door. She was the third-grade teacher and led us down a corridor lined with class photos. The images of adult White faces and young Black faces caught my attention. We peeked into empty, well-decorated classrooms, and the silence was only broken by our footsteps.
In her classroom, the teacher showed us materials for a science project and answered my parents’ questions about the curriculum. My father inquired about the racial makeup of the student body, learning it was majority Black. My mind wandered until I blurted out a question that had been forming in my head.
“Are you the only Black teacher?” I asked.
“Yes, but—” she began, but I interrupted, “Why are you the only Black teacher?”
She looked puzzled and turned to my parents for help. My mother explained that I had been reading biographies of Black leaders, part of the Junior Black Americans of Achievement series promoted by Coretta Scott King. My father had bought a stack of these biographies, and I devoured them, learning about figures like Martin Luther King Jr., Frederick Douglass, and Ida B. Wells. These stories ignited a racial consciousness in me, making me acutely aware of the injustices faced by Black Americans.
My mother added, “He is very much aware of being Black,” and my father nodded in agreement. In that moment, my parents realized I had entered what I now call “racial puberty.” At seven years old, I began to feel the weight of racism, a force larger than myself, my parents, or anything in my world.
Race, I learned, is a powerful construct, a mirage that shapes our identities and experiences. It categorizes, judges, elevates, and downgrades us, even though it is an illusion created by the powerful light of racist ideologies. I do not pity my younger self for identifying as Black. I still do, not because I believe in the scientific validity of race, but because our societies, policies, and histories have made it matter.
I see myself culturally, historically, and politically in Blackness, as an African American, an African, and a member of the African diaspora. I also identify as a person of color, aligned with Latinx, East Asian, Middle Eastern, and Native peoples, and all those marginalized by various forms of discrimination. Identifying as Black allows me to see myself as an antiracist, part of a collective striving to accept and empower racial differences.
Some White people avoid identifying as White to escape reckoning with the privileges Whiteness affords them. In America, it is a racial crime to be yourself if you are not White. I guess I became a criminal at seven years old.
Antiracism requires us to identify racially to understand the privileges and dangers associated with our identities. Race is a power construct that categorizes and judges, elevates and downgrades. The first global power to construct race was Portugal in the 15th century, under Prince Henry the Navigator. He orchestrated the transatlantic slave trade, creating a racial hierarchy to justify the enslavement of Africans.
Prince Henry’s biographer, Gomes de Zurara, crafted the first racist ideas to defend this practice. He described Africans as living “like beasts,” justifying their enslavement. This narrative laid the foundation for future racist ideologies, which were further solidified by figures like Carl Linnaeus in the 18th century. Linnaeus color-coded races and assigned them hierarchical traits, positioning Europeans at the top.
From 1434 to 1447, nearly a thousand enslaved Africans were brought to Portugal, a practice blessed by successive popes. Zurara’s writings aimed to portray Prince Henry as a savior, not a slave trader. This narrative served to justify the economic benefits of the slave trade for Portugal.
Throughout history, powerful economic, political, and cultural self-interests have driven racist policies. Intellectuals like Zurara then produced racist ideas to justify these policies, redirecting blame for racial inequities onto the marginalized.
As a child, I questioned the lack of Black teachers at Grace Lutheran School. My parents eventually enrolled me in a private Lutheran school closer to home, where I had a White third-grade teacher. I didn’t mind until I noticed the racial dynamics at play.
Reflecting on these experiences, I understand that racist policies create racist ideas, not the other way around. The root problem has always been the self-interest of those in power. Recognizing this helps us understand the importance of antiracism and the need to challenge these power structures.
Source: Ibram X. Kendi, Brené Brown
