The Weight of Blackness

This story is a part of a collaborative Black History Month print and digital edition with The Nubian Message on Feb. 26, 2026.

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I never had to learn that I was Black— it was something that I always knew, something that I was proud of. But as an adult, my Blackness has become something that I feel.

As a child, my parents weren’t afraid of explaining the scary things of the world—racism, discrimination and microaggressions. It would have become difficult to hide once I began experiencing my own encounters as an elementary school student anyway.

My Saturdays were often spent watching documentaries about African American history, ancestry and civil rights (Henry Louis Gates J.r., a famous historian and documentarian, became a familiar face in my household). And there wasn’t a summer where my mother didn’t have lists of books about Black history for me to read before school started in August.

All these experiences instilled a sense of pride and consciousness. I became aware of how people perceived me just because my skin is dark. I recognized that some still have lower expectations of my competence, achievement and intelligence because of my skin.

My university, North Carolina Central University, an HBCU, is a haven where my Blackness does not factor into how I’m treated. But once I leave the perimeter of campus, that feeling of security fades.

Being Black at times feels like a performance—a performance on a stage where the entirety of the Black race is in the audience holding their breath, hoping that I don’t let them down. And now I feel the weight of my skin and the constant pressure to break the negative expectations that people have about me because of it.

I feel like an ambassador who’s always on duty for Black people. And the feeling of constantly representing millions of people, most of whom I’ll never meet, is heavy. It’s an interesting, inverted form of imposter syndrome—I know I’m deserving of the opportunities I earn, but I also must prove to others why I’ve earned my place.

This is especially true in 2026 where it appears that outspoken racism has come back in style—though it never disappeared.

All these things motivate me to try my best, even if I am not the best at what I do. But when I’m not the best, how does this make Black people look? This is a question I often think to myself.

My grandparents, great aunts and uncles and older church members, all of whom are Black, are quick to express their pride in what I’ve accomplished—despite it feeling quite small compared to what others are doing. (It seems like knowing the phrase “comparison is the thief of joy” would halt these thoughts).

I see this pride in the simple things in life, like my grandmother’s joy in seeing a young, Black woman anchoring the local news station in her city. There was a time, not long ago, where such a possibility was incomprehensible.

These individuals remind me of something very important. Basic rights were expanded to Black people in the United States not long ago. So, why would I not try my best to be what my ancestors died for me to become?

It is this reality that makes my skin, and heart, feel heavy. But it also pushes me to do my best.