Urban Dictionary definition of the Black Tax:
“The notion that Black people have to work and perform regular tasks twice as well as White people.”
My mom taught me from a very young age that I had to work twice as hard as non-blacks to get ahead, to be seen, to be heard, which is termed the “Black Tax”. It is a common ideology amongst black people and shared between parents and their children. Being one of few minority families in our area, staying under the radar was a survival technique. My mom valued appearances - we look neat, clean, presentable, we speak clearly and study hard. Don’t be too aggressive, loud, militant etc. I was taught to not cause any waves and work hard in school and in life to rise up. Education was emphasized and I was encouraged to do well in school and go to college. I honestly didn’t have any issues with looking nice and playing along. I appreciated having parents who were rooting for me to do well in school and in life, even at an early age. I fell right in line.
We lived in a predominantly white town, a small town in New England, where I was one of a handful of minorities in my school from kindergarten through high school. I was used to being the “other” in class and always had it in the back of my mind that I needed to work harder, be a leader, stand out, be seen, be heard to get ahead or just get the same respect and acknowledgement as my peers. Living life by the black tax comes with a price though, well at least for me it did - I interpreted it to mean that I had to strive for perfection, be ridiculously tough on myself when I made mistakes, become a people pleaser and have unrealistic expectations - something I struggle with and have worked through over the years. I also think a lot of the issues I had was about pleasing my folks. They were rooting for me and I didn’t want to let them down. I’ve often heard from others “you are so hard on yourself”. I now know where that comes from. I am sure I am one of many black women who have struggles with perfectionism among other things as a result of their environment and upbringing. The people-pleasing issues started as early as I can remember I think in 1st or 2nd grade. I would have crying outbursts in school when a girlfriend got mad at me over whatever 7 year olds fight about. I would sob and say “she doesn’t like me” over and over. I remember the teachers trying to calm me down. It happened a lot. Not until my adult years did I realize why I was so emotional. I was so young and I needed to be accepted. I didn’t feel like I fit in and blamed myself for people having issues with me . They didn’t like ME. I felt abandoned and was so desperate to fit in - somewhere, anywhere. I eventually outgrew the outbursts but felt and expressed pain in other ways.
Microaggressions and biases were constant in my world when you are one of few minorities growing up. I learned to accept it was a part of life after a while. You get to the point where you can’t be mad or hurt anymore and then just give up. I remember being in 3rd or 4th grade where I went from having long ponytails to coming to school one day with a short, puffy 80’s bob (I had a massive haircut). The kids didn’t know what to do with it and I remember feeling coins hitting my head in the cafeteria from boys at a nearby table wanting to see if my they would bounce off my hair. Kids said things like, “Oh your not “black””. I had cousins that were half white and people never believed we were related. They thought I was kidding. I felt so dismissed. I also felt outnumbered to even speak up for myself many times since I would be in school with these kids for many many years. Most would say I was extra talkative and very expressive and creative (like father like daughter - thanks Dad). I remember feeling alone, misunderstood and over the years would have identity crises. Finding the balance of being more than perfect or just as good, being heard but not too loud, fitting in and not being too different and so on was a lot for a kid. I was bursting with energy and things to say but was conflicted because I felt I had to tame it. School is hard enough and adding in that extra pressure was so exhausting. Since there was hardly anyone like me to identify with and no one to talk to, I walked into my elementary school counselor’s office and poured out my heart to her regularly. She was a new counselor, a young, gentle woman, and I felt instantly comfortable with her. She helped me work through my emotions using creative outlets where I journaled, danced and drew my feelings. I don’t even think my parents knew I was going to see her. I am so grateful for her and the time I got to spend in her office decompressing, healing and being heard.
Over the years the microaggressions, biases and blatant racism continues. I was always told how well I spoke and dressed. When I began dating the white boys in school that made people uncomfortable. I could feel their eyes on us, them whispering when we were in public. I also had a guy tell me he couldn’t date me because his parents didn’t want him dating a black girl. They made us break up. I dated another white boy whose friends called him “Count Chocula”, named after the cereal, because he liked black girls. That enraged me. I told his friends that it was insanely racist and offensive but they thought it was playful. SMH. URRRGGGHHH. Even shopping can be maddening. I get followed around in stores from the store clerks thinking I am going to steal something. That happened as recently as last year! I buy things I don’t even want because I don’t want them to think I stole something if I just walk out. Try having a last name of latin descent too. Boy does that confuse people. I am in waiting rooms and “Ms. Gonzales” gets called out. I am the LAST person they think is going to stand up and walk towards them. The look on their faces (and people in the room) is always predictable. Some people are so uncomfortable that they start nervously asking me where I am from. Are you from the Caribbean? Puerto Rican? Are you married to a Mexican man?” WTF? NO! Then here’s the answer they never expect to hear, “Gonzales is Filipino”. BOOM! Boy does that blow their minds. Can’t a girl have mixed heritage? I once heard “How does a pretty girl like you get a name like Gonzales?” I was beyond shocked. The audacity of some people!
That is just a taste of my unique experiences with racism. I say this to not make you feel bad for me but to demonstrate that it is not acceptable. Racism causes trauma early in life and since it goes unchecked, it becomes a painful wound that Black people have to endure their entires lives. I am proud of my blackness but others have tried to make me feel less than, shameful and not worthy. They can’t bring me down but it doesn’t mean that I live without pain and fear. I live in fear daily for my black, male family members and friends who could get pulled over by the wrong cop. Getting pulled over is an unfortunate, common part of life and it is very worrisome. Every day I am in gratitude for having my loved ones safe and sound, including me. I am hopeful that this new movement will bring much needed change. I see you listening, learning and discussing racism. Let’s continue these amazing efforts and put our power into voting for change at the local levels and beyond.
