Recklessly Loving: A Journey to Uncover the Layers of Black Girlhood in America
Written By Aleah LaForce
"Mo to the, E to the…," I nod and sway to the beginning of the theme song to my latest Netflix binge obsession, Moesha. When Netflix announced summer of 2020 it had gained contracts for several classic Black television series, I was ecstatic. This came after reflection on the realization that my mother did not have the luxury to fully educate me on American culture and her own experiences assimilating to it.
My mom, a single mother who speaks with a heavy accent, raised me to value academics highly above anything else. Being raised in South Jersey, my younger brother and I were extremely alienated and attended predominantly white private schools leading up to college.
Most weekends were spent commuting from South Jersey to New York for a church service that would often start at 11:00 a.m. and end at 5 p.m. This Spiritual Baptist denomination was created by Africans on plantations to escape spiritual slavery and was adapted by Afro-Caribbeans to further practice religion even in a foreign land.
These weekly trips to Brooklyn were my only exposure to the familiarity of my Caribbean heritage. I found solace in interacting with the church youth who had parents from similar backgrounds and joked about our strict Caribbean households. My mom would constantly reiterate the belief that if I worked hard to do what I was supposed to, only then could I achieve success. Therefore, education was key. We were pushed to achieve. There was simply no room left to be ‘laxidasical’ and our only option post-high school was college.
It was not until college that I realized the ‘double consciousness’ of my New American identity.
I remember walking into lecture halls where I would constantly feel like I was living out a never-ending hyphen. I received stares when the police brutality incidents around my college would come up in my classes. I was even told by school faculty to remove my “My Black is Beautiful” T-shirt when filming campus announcements.
These daily microaggressions were under the guise of Midwest politeness. I was mortified by this reaction of blatant and overt racism that only worsened. The recalibration of my perception of a sheltered childhood innocence had to change because I was faced with the obstacle of overcoming my trauma while operating in these spaces.
I often felt unsafe in my skin while coming to terms with my identity as a Black woman in America, who was also a child of immigrants. These experiences ignited my charge to carry out justice in a practical way, from winning grants for local nonprofits, fighting on Capitol Hill for Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipients, to spearheading town halls surrounding education on the Marijuana Regulation & Taxation Act (MRTA) bill to combat the War on Drugs; I knew my pain would not be in vain.
In this painting of my story, I cannot neglect my mother's. My memories of childhood are full of my mother's stories, which largely depicted capitalism as a mechanism that disparaged community.
Growing up in Trinidad, my mom was used to politely greeting her neighbors and exchanging meals throughout the week. In the States, she lived with a cousin who took her to do domestic work as a house cleaner in Upstate New York. She entered a culture that wanted her to be permanently, neutrally disadvantaged because of her identity.
Within the three years of her leaving home, both of her parents had died. This meant that being home in the Caribbean never felt like home again; she had to achieve her goals in America, alone and slowly. Most of her time after that was spent raising my elder brothers while living in several nonpermanent environments.
Her goal was always to provide stability for her children, while simultaneously putting her dream of becoming a nurse on the back burner. She rented out studio rooms until my older brother was 14.
Attending Oral Roberts University was the first time in my life that I realized the truth in the words my mother conveyed to me.
She stated how I have to make sacrifices to achieve God's calling on a distinct level, one that my African American friends often don’t understand. As I reflected on her words, I remember her telling me how she made one of the ultimate sacrifices: Giving a church friend temporary custody of my older brother so she could enlist in the Army to build a stronger foundation for her family. Several years later she would also join the New York Police Department (NYPD).
Although I knew it took an immense sacrifice to immigrate to the United States, I had to acknowledge the strides taken on my behalf that allowed me to have the opportunity to advocate for those who have been consistently mistreated due to the United States’ failure to right its structural wrongs.
The more I was able to process the microaggressions I experienced in Oklahoma, the more I understood my mom's tendencies and mannerisms and actions in raising us.
As I navigated processing my trauma and researched the intersectionalities that dispersuade progress for Black women, my purpose in championing us first became clear. In the words of Michelle Alexander, “Racial caste systems do not require racial hostility or overt bigotry to thrive. They need only racial indifference, as Martin Luther King Jr. warned more than forty-five years ago.”
I intend to be the change I wish to see and fight for Black people and those who feel unheard. I must thrust forward in the midst of seeking to bear fruit, while first planting the seeds.
Brooklyn-born and South Jersey raised, you can find Aleah actively serving her Brooklyn community or reading three books. Aleah is a lover of Jesus. She enjoys all things summer, iced matchas and Black girl magic!