Rooted

A personal essay by Carly Clark

"All are alike unto God"

Karissa, Niara, Kaylan, Destiny, and Imani. They are my childhood best friends. They are kind. They make me feel valued as a person. They love big. We play hard, laugh hard, and have experienced life together from the age of five years old. And they are black. I did not realize this as a kid. They were just my friends, simple as that. It was not until I began having them come to my house and play or having sleepovers that I recognized that we were different. Until an uncle of mine approached me and told me I should start looking for friends that are more like me. I was bewildered. Sure, I liked pink, and Imani liked yellow but that was okay! I asked my mom that night what Uncle Jason had meant by that. At the age of seven years old, my mother had to sit me down and explain to me the difference between me and my best friends. I recall eagerly running to them at school the next morning and placing my freckled, ivory arm next to the caramel-toned arm of Niara. “Look!” I exclaimed. I told her that she was black, and I was white, and some people didn’t like that but that it was okay because she was still my best friend. We both laughed and skipped into class together. Racism is not born, it is taught.

 “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”

 – Audre Lorde

 As I grew, I remained best friends with these four girls. I began to recognize more of our differences as we matured and became more integrated into the real world. We celebrated many black history months together. We cried together when we learned that if we had been born just decades earlier, we would not have been able to be in school together, let alone be friends. I held their hands tightly when a seventeen-year-old black boy was murdered over a hoodie, a pack of skittles, and a can of iced tea. I held them tighter when his killer was acquitted. Experiences such as these shaped me as a person, helping me to realize that I truly was different from my best friends. And that was okay. In fact, I learned how important it is to recognize those differences and not let them divide us but to learn from them and celebrate them. It is not acceptable to be “colorblind.” We are all different, and that is beautiful. It was not until I was sixteen years old that I had my true reckoning with race. Growing up in a sparsely populated, rural town in South Carolina, I was surrounded by racism. Confederate flags flown proudly from the backs of trucks and front porches, racial slurs thrown around at the family dinner table, and jokes about me spoiling the bloodline when I expressed interest in a guy who happened to be black were normal things that happened in my life. I had a family and community so deeply rooted in racism. But I was not racist. I clung to that notion for years. I was surrounded by racism, but I had black friends. I was not racist. I was okay with that for most of my life. It was comfortable. I could be an ally to my black friends without causing a stir within my family. I felt as though my voice would not make a difference so there was no point in creating contention and blatantly speaking out against what so many of my family members, friends, and community believed. Until Keith Lamont Scott, an African American man was shot and killed by a police officer on September 20th, 2016.   

Police shootings on unarmed black boys and men had been increasing for years, but this one was different. It was only forty miles away from our small, majority-black town. This, coupled with our high school’s homecoming spirit week, fueled a lot of contention. Why? Because the next day was meant to be fifties day at our high school to count down to the big game. As African American students searched for inspiration for their outfits, a quick internet search of “black people in the 50s” revealed appalling results. Black and white images of black people being lynched, attacked by Klu Klux Klan members, protesting in Civil Rights movements, and drinking out of segregated water fountains illuminated their screens, alongside the news of the killing of Keith Lamont Scott. It spread like wildfire through social media. That our high school was racist, run by racist teachers and administrators, and that it was time for us as students to stand up against it. The plan was to protest by wearing all black instead of what was expected. I was faced with a big decision. And I made the wrong one.

I showed up to school the next morning in my felt pink poodle skirt in true fifties style. Melanin fists attached to black-clothed bodies dotted the parking lot and the hallways. Shouts of “black lives matter” echoed the hallways. I agreed. Black lives did matter. I knew that. But I was scared. Kaylan, Karissa, Imani, Niara, and Destiny stared at me with disappointment. They understood the fears I had of causing contention within my family, but they had always viewed me as an ally, and this changed things for them. This event led me to do some serious self-reflection and have some deep conversations with these friends that had been there for me for the last eleven years. I learned what it meant to truly be an ally. Years later, in June 2020, there was a string of killings of innocent black men and women alike. This led to increased tension across the country, spiking an increase in Black Lives Matter protests. I had another decision to make and this time, I wanted it to be the right one.

I marched. I posted on social media. The fear that had been instilled in me from a young age of standing up against racism still existed, but what existed in a greater amount was my desire to help my friends. To be there for them and to not fail them again. I knew my family would not agree. But I knew that my God would. "For He inviteth them all to come unto him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto Him."