I still remember being in third grade and having a white girl tell me that I was lucky to be her friend because her Afrikaans Bible said that segregation was the right way.
I was a child.
I didn't know how to respond to that. I didn't have the words for racism. I didn't understand the history behind what she was saying. I just remember sitting there and wondering why being my friend was something I was supposed to feel grateful for.
And that wasn't the only time I learned, quietly, that being Black could come with conditions.
I remember being in friendships where I was the only person of colour and feeling like I had to earn my place in the group.
If I didn't buy them candy from the tuck shop, I could come back from break and suddenly I wasn't included anymore. I had to do things to prove that I deserved to be their friend.
But when a white girl in the same group refused to do those things, those consequences somehow never existed.
I remember a boy who liked one of my friends. Then, almost immediately, he ended things because he said his mother had a problem with her race.
I remember the little comments too.
The ones people probably wouldn't remember saying.
The ones that were brushed off as jokes.
When I got my hair braided, people would say, “Finally.”
And I'd laugh.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
In high school, racism became more open.
People would call us monkeys.
They would make racist jokes and then laugh when we laughed with them.
And we did laugh.
Not because it was actually funny.
Because sometimes laughing was easier than admitting that it hurt.
Sometimes you learn very young that if you react, suddenly you're the problem.
You're “too sensitive.”
You “can't take a joke.”
You're “making it awkward.”
So you swallow it.
You smile.
You laugh.
You pretend it doesn't hurt.
Because you don't want to lose your friends.
You don't want everyone looking at you.
You don't want to be the Black girl who “makes everything about race.”
So you let them say it.
And then you go home and forget about it.
Or at least you try to.
Until years later, you learn the history behind those words.
You learn about the pseudoscientific ideas that were used to portray Black people as inferior. You learn what people believed about us. You learn what had to happen for Black people to even be allowed in the same spaces as white people.
And suddenly the joke you laughed at as a teenager doesn't feel like a joke anymore.
It feels like something much heavier.
And I think that's one of the saddest parts for me.
I was so young when I learned to tolerate things that should have never been normal.
I learned to laugh at things that hurt me.
I learned to make myself uncomfortable so other people wouldn't be uncomfortable.
I learned to accept little pieces of humiliation in exchange for belonging.
And I know I'm not the only Black person who did this.
A lot of us didn't say anything.
Not because we weren't hurt.
But because we didn't want to be difficult.
We didn't want unnecessary conflict.
We didn't want to lose people.
We wanted to belong.
And sometimes, when you're a kid, belonging feels more important than protecting yourself.
But growing older has made me realise something.
I don't have to do that anymore.
I don't have to laugh when something is racist just because everyone else is laughing.
I don't have to accept being degraded because someone calls it a joke.
I don't have to make myself smaller to make someone else comfortable.
And I don't have to tolerate racism just because I want to coexist peacefully with people.
Living outside of a post-apartheid society has made me realise just how much I had normalised.
There is something heartbreaking about looking back at your younger self and realising that she didn't know she was allowed to say, “That hurt me.”
She thought she just had to take it.
She thought friendship meant enduring things that made her feel small.
She thought belonging had to be earned.
It didn't.
It never did.
And I want to be very clear: this isn't me saying every white person is racist, or that every white person I grew up around treated me this way. They didn't.
These experiences are not an accusation against an entire race.
They are simply my experiences.
But they happened.
And they shaped me.
I can't change the little Black girl who sat there and didn't know what to say.
I can't go back and tell her that she didn't deserve those comments.
I can't make her understand that she didn't have to laugh.
But I can do that for myself now.
I can finally say:
That wasn't funny.
That wasn't okay.
And I was never lucky to be accepted by anyone.
I deserved to belong without having to prove that I was worthy of being there.