I couldn't be more grateful to be raising two girls in an era that openly celebrates the beauty of being Black and all that comes with it. I've unfortunately felt shame for being Black plenty of times, and all exclusively while an adolescent, which is tragic within itself. But there's one moment that sticks with me more than the rest.
I was sixteen, and my orthodontist told me I was ready for the braces to come off. If you've ever had braces, you know there are no better words to hear, especially to a teenage girl in high school. I was ready to shine my pearly straight whites wherever I went.
I was almost home free, too, when the orthodontist told me I'd need an oral surgeon to remove my molars, so they didn't undo my chiclets smile.
A week later, I was in the office, ready to have my molars extracted. The anesthesiologist put me under, and the procedure went as planned, except the medication keeping me 'under' was wearing off quicker than they expected. I wasn't feeling any pain, I couldn't move, but I could feel the tug of the stitches on my gums, and my hearing was crystal clear.
That's when it happened. That's when I heard the words I'd never forget, "ugh, what's her name? They name their kids anything."
I tried to open my eyes, but I was still too sedated. I wanted to move, speak, or do anything to let the woman know I'd heard what she said.
I must have managed to do something (i think I tensed up my face) because the room fell eerily silent—deafening silent.
I've imagined the look of shock on their faces, or maybe hands clasped over their mouths, you know, the "oh shit" look.
My brain was moving at high speed, but the anesthesia made my words slow and slurred. I tried to tell my Dad what had happened. I was angry and frustrated.
Eventually, I got the story out. It was the use of "they" that bothered me the most. But I couldn't understand why my Dad wasn't more upset. Why wasn't he reading them for filth for talking about his child/him/us, Black people?
I was big mad, and I wanted my Dad to go off on everyone in that room. I told him not to pay the bill—spoken like a true teen that's never paid a bill a day in their lives.
Hindsight, of course, is 2020. As a 6'2" dark-skinned black man, my Dad's stature (even if he is a gentle giant) I now know is threatening, and he wasn't willing to start any trouble or draw any extra attention to us unnecessarily.
I'm sure he thought the surgery was successful even if I walked about with a bruised ego.
For me, walking out of that office felt like a walk of shame. Like it was justifiable and maybe even true. They got away with it. My Dad paid his hard-earned money for racist bedside manners. How was that fair?
I had always loved my name, and most people do too when they learn how to pronounce it, but after that incident, I started to adopt nicknames to make it easier and possibly less offensive to white America for the first time in my life.
I looked for non-verbal cues when someone new learned my name. I wondered if my teachers thought my name was too ethnic, too ghetto, too Black.
One seemingly off-color statement left such an imprint on my psyche. It's why I gave my children "resume names," a term coined in the Black community for a name that doesn't reveal ethnicity when read alone. It goes without saying why that would even be necessary.
It's why my heart aches for the Black children who experience racism. I know first-hand that regardless of how strong or agile they may appear, the wounds remain unhealed and unchanged without a responsible and loving adult redirecting pain to power.
Those wounds to a growing child are whispers that tell you; you're not good enough. You are inferior. They are damning to young souls finding their way in life.
It took therapy, introspection, and self-love to elevate my self-value and worth because it wasn't the shame of my name. It was the shame of being Black and having a name that announced my skin tone before I'd walked into a room.
Today, as a grown woman, I'm actively working to detach shame, guilt, trauma, and pain and heal whole-heartedly from the inside out.
I am Zakkiya, which is of Arabic origin, meaning wise and intelligent that's a strong, brilliant, and bold name for this Black woman on a conscious journey to healing and wellness. This is my Black history.
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