See Me, See Us

Laying next to the person I would hardly expect to provide my trust and care to, I suddenly realized I had never felt more comfortable. In bed watching Mr. and Mrs.Smith, I was completely caught off guard when the guy I had been seeing asked if I wanted to spend the night. Feeling hesitant, I danced around a response hoping my hesitation would dismiss the question. Yet, he insisted that I stay as he had a bonnet for me lying on his dresser. 

I think about that often. My thoughts have nothing to do with him, or that night we shared, but rather the shared understanding that occurred. I felt at ease knowing I would never have to explain the simple things to him. That he would know not to run his fingers through my hair. I wouldn’t have to look at the surprised face when my nipples were brown instead of light pink. He would get along easily with my family and would not question the food served at dinner or the loud music blasting into the night. No longer dancing around a response, I looked at him and said, “Yes.” 

I began this writing process asking questions, aiming to criticize the media's absence of healthy representations of Black love. I was eager to discuss this topic in its initial stages but began to feel entirely disconnected when writing about it. I don’t want to criticize the media entirely – I’m tired of blaming it for my own and others shortcomings. Yes, there are many faults in the media when it comes to racial inequity. However, I’m not sure that’s where we as a society really fall short. Growing up watching The Cosby Show reminds me that there are healthy representations of Black love. After reading Aiyana Ishmael’s article on Stella Maghie’s film  “The Photograph,” expressing her comfort at watching a simple Black love story, I now wonder whether this is truly the media’s fault. Do we as viewers and critics fall short in popularizing the joy, love, and happiness that is Black culture? 

Why am I the only one in my close circle of friends struggling to relate to characters in the media? I can confidently say that none of them grew up watching The Cosby Show. That if I were to name shows like Moesha or Girlfriends they would respond with a puzzled curiosity. It is shameful for white people to not watch or popularize movies and TV shows celebrating Black culture. They would rather entertain media that indulge in Black suffering to other Black people, claim the notion of “self awareness, or to further pedal their white guilt.” Movies like The Hate U Give, Moonlight, and Get Out are fantastic films, but I cannot help but ache watching the Black tears shed through racism, poverty, or police brutality. White people tend to ignore what is healthy, happy, and wonderfully shared within the Black community and highlight the injustice that happens at the hands of their wrongdoings. 

I’ve never really cared about the term “Black love.” My parents are an example of it. They’ve preached and celebrated its importance as though it will save me, as though it will grant all my wishes to be seen and understood. As though it will finally make me feel at ease. Yet, I wasn’t aware I was so unsettled. My experience in love has been limited. Maybe I would feel more qualified if I had been in a long-term relationship with a white person. If they had made me feel uncomfortable, asked questions I didn’t want to answer. However, in the era of hookup culture and “talking stages,” I am left solely with memories of awkward conversations. I fear I have no real examples of what it means to be consistently loved or consistently miserable. Just moments I feel don’t truly make for an enticing tale. 

My freshman year of high school I had a really close girl friend who brought me to a bunch of parties. The unspoken goal of these parties for most of the girls there was to find a guy to hook up with. I knew from the very first one this was not going to be my goal. It wasn’t because I wasn’t interested in that activity, or because I didn’t think I was pretty or fun or interesting enough to be desired. Rather it was because from the very first party I took a look around the dark room colored with red LED lights and gathered that I was the darkest one there. And I had subconsciously decided that these innocent experiences my best friend had were not going to be ones we shared. When it came to moments like these, it did not matter that she knew all my secrets or that I called her parents by their first names. My thoughts were no longer ones we shared and my fears were no longer ones she could protect me from. It suddenly became painfully obvious that the person I considered family would never truly see me. She would never know what it feels like to be hidden. 

I’ve always thought the teenage experience for my generation is essentially the same. Technology and media has deeply influenced our thoughts and behavior. We grew up watching movies and TV shows idolizing characters who we feel we relate to or desire to be. It wasn’t until writing this essay that I realized that most of the characters I idolized were white. That there was no Black “it girl” I grew up watching secretly aspiring to be. There was no relationship among Black people that I wished to have. 

When I sat with my girl friends chatting about the latest hit movies or TV shows I dreamed of being a girl like Buffy Summers or Serena Van Der Woodsen. I screamed for boys like Chad Micheal Murray and Leonardo Dicaprio. When writing this piece, I realized my only example of media with healthy representations of Black love is The Cosby Show, a show I grew up watching every Sunday with my family and haven’t watched since I was about seven-years-old. I am seventeen-years-old now and live in a world where the media heavily dictates the way we experience life. I am experiencing life with no idolized example of “Black love,” of what it means to be seen, understood, and celebrated by your partner because of a shared racial identity. Why? Why have I not spent my teenage years knowing what it feels like to not have to explain yourself and wonder if you will ever be enough? Knowing that and spending every shared teenage experience searching for it. Why have I not done that? 

I have no real answer, and I’m not sure I really want one. I have come to the conclusion that an answer no longer matters. I want to stop questioning society and instead aim to repair the damage. The idea of being seen, understood, and celebrated by everyone I choose to surround myself with is a concept I crave. Though maybe the belief that it is not so easily accessible is what makes “Black love” and this community special. Maybe that is the answer: Black joy, love, and happiness is special, real and worth celebrating. It is worth being shown through the media. It is worth being talked about in white circles of friends. It is worth being idolized and appreciated by everyone. And I am so incredibly tired of having to answer what should never be a question.