Guest Column: Experiencing USU as a black student; Student offers insight into her daily battle of standing out
“Excuse me: What is this word at the bottom of my receipt?” asked the elderly white woman.
“That would be my name, ma’am.”
As I turned to walk away, she grabbed my arm.
“Are you a foreigner? You look to be at least half foreign,” she said.
“Nope. Southern bred. All-American.”
Puzzled, she looked to her husband for an explanation: “She’s Black American, honey.”
What year is this? This is why I have quit this job six times in four years. Safiyyah is my name. It is Arabic in origin. I have learned to love my name only recently. My name tag reads: Phia. It is not my name. I started using a nickname in an effort to eliminate questions regarding my origin.
If you are a minority in Utah, you have to answer questions regarding your origin, background and matter of business in Utah on a daily basis. There are ways to avoid the questions: Headphones. Sunglasses. Appearing unapproachable. The questions are innocent. The people that ask the questions are simply curious. Some days, however, I wish I had a publicist to step in and say “Ms. Ballard will not take any more questions. Thank you.” But there is no publicist. There are only sunglasses in my arsenal – since my Sony Discman that I got Christmas 2004 is now outdated.
I came to USU with my best friend of 13 years, my cousin Shukria. She integrated well, joined the A-Team, won scholarships, excelled academically. Shukria seemed unaffected. She coped differently – better – than I did. I lost my scholarships, had poor grades and hated everyone. I was an angry black woman and I was barely a woman. I resented that my best friend did not notice when we were being followed in a store or stared at in restaurants or whispered about by old people. I retreated home to North Carolina in the middle of the semester on more than one occasion. Shukria never forgot why we came here. I was distracted by my environment. The religion, the people, the politics, the interracial relationships, the weather, the history – everything enthralled and appalled me. My friend and I only recently talked about why we grew apart, and what this place has done to us. I love her immensely and now I appreciate our journey.
It is rare that I find a black woman that is my mother’s age, and my mother is just 17 years my senior. There are no elders to offer examples, advice, tall tales and strong words. No mothers cooking Sunday dinner or fathers challenging our young men to be men. We try to emulate our elders. I will never forget the first time Shukria and I cooked Sunday dinner for some of our black friends. All of us were homesick for soul food. We went and bought a fry daddy and some casserole pans and called our mothers for seasoning tips. Fried chicken, fried catfish, homemade mac and cheese, cornbread, collard greens with hamhocks and pineapple upside-down cake. Our apartment was sweating from the steam of the oven and the deep fryer. The smell of home, family, community – history. Sunday dinner was a tradition we had all grown to love and long for, regardless of our hometown. Shukria and I spent most of our lives on Okinawa, yet we still clung to the traditions of the black community, as our mothers had done. Our mothers opened their kitchens, their homes, their hearts up to the homesick young military men on the island.
The Logan community is, overall, pretty welcoming. As a bilingual, black woman born in North Carolina and raised in Japan, the only times I have ever been called a nigger, or heard a white person use the word, has been in Logan. The number of times I have heard that word pronounced correctly and used in a derogatory manner is seven in four years. The last time was two weeks ago and I hail from the dusty roads of the Confederate-flag-waving South. The only time I have ever been exposed to organized racism has been at the annual Cruise-In here in Logan. Despite my upbringing, I did not think as a black woman. In Japan, I was an American only.
The double consciousness arose on moving-in day, at Valley View Towers. A white girl in the elevator turned to Shukria and I: “Are you guys athletes?” No. “Are you LDS?” What the hell is that? “Well then why are you here?” In Utah, we were black first, women second, non-Mormon third and American last. That is how my sistas and brothas and I are treated here.
So we cling to one another, fight amongst ourselves and laugh at our daily trials. We support each other through losing seasons, wins, tragedies at home and injuries. There is a rule: When you see another Black person, you speak. That simple head nod or smile says that our souls as black folk are agreeable. I know what ails you my sista – can you braid my hair? I know your struggle my brotha – when’s the last time you had some grits? I cannot explain the racial paranoia or the air in the classroom when you are the only black face. The weariness of your spirit when an organization is labeling you an affirmative-action recipient or a welfare queen through propaganda and political rhetoric – trying to tell our impossible stories as black people through shady statistics. But when I see one of my people, I know that there is someone that shares my racial battle fatigue – someone I do not have to explain myself to. Nahmean? I knew you would.
Safiyyah Ballard is a junior majoring in sociology. Comments and questions can be sent to safabal@cc.usu.edu.