Life as a Black Girl: In Between

By: Chipo Biti

The first ‘in between’ moment, as a black girl, I remember took place when I was eight. I didn’t know where to sit during recess. Learning in a predominantly white school sure came with its complications. There were only two black girls in my class – including me. I was friends with the white girls, and We’d been friends since the first grade, but I was also friends with a couple of the black girls in the other class so when my first recess came, I didn’t know what to do.

Sit with the girls whose skin was like mine? Or sit with the girls whose skin tone and entire livelihood was a long distance away from my own? My young mind didn’t know that. I chose to sit with the white girls for a while because I was closer to a number of them than I was with the other black girls. Time passed though and I switched groups. I felt more comfortable with the black girls. I could freely share stories about the beatings I received from my mother or having to eat sadza (a Zimbabwean traditional dish) without receiving strange looks or those polite half smiles that attempted to mask the inability to understand my stories.

When I moved to South Africa, in the sixth grade, I found myself in another predominantly white school. This time there wasn’t a group of black girls I could run to and seek solace in. No. There were three black girls in the entire grade – including me – and I couldn’t relate with any of them. They happened to come from completely different backgrounds from me. They hung out with the white girls, the popular white girls.

They didn’t have time to share about whatever they went through at home. Fitting into the South African way of living took several years for me to get the hang of. I did find friends. Good friends. But those friendships broke down eventually because…well, sometimes differences affect us more than we think. I came from a strongly Christian background, most of my friends did not. I’d have to skip outings with friends because mum and I had to go on another trip to find a salon that did black hair properly. My friends didn’t understand my tears when one terrible hairdresser ruined my long hair.

In between. I learned to adjust. I adjusted by hiding. I hid my pain. I hid my experiences. I hid my struggles. The less I acknowledged my blackness, my Africanness, myself…the more I fit in.

The more ‘likes’ I added after words and the more I concerned myself with Hilary Duff and the Olsen twins, the more I fit in. I was only thirteen years old when I learned that in order for me to survive in a white environment, I had to turn a blind eye on who I was born as. No one demanded it. There weren’t any written rules. That’s just how it was.

Until another black girl moved to my school and she ended up in my class. There was power in our relating. Our bond didn’t go unnoticed. Soon people started becoming uncomfortable around us. We began to question things. Why couldn’t black girls get colorful braids but white girls were allowed to dye their hair? We were loud.

She was a girl who was confident about her identity. About her heritage. She ignited that flame in me. Slowly, the façade I’d built for so long began to melt away and I lost my shame.

I’d look at my skin and I’d smile. We were fourteen. We befriended the black girls in the grade below us and the waves grew. We were called names. People found it funny to call us the ‘Ghetto group’. We were referred to as ‘Those Black Girls’. We didn’t care, though. We continued to embrace who we were and we fought against the injustice we came across. We called out some of the white kids on their racism. To them, they didn’t see it as racism. Their words were ‘just words’. We wouldn’t take that.

I lost friends during this transition. But the real ones came back. The ones who took me for me. Not ‘Chips’ – a nickname I’d come up with to replace my real, African name. The name my proudly Zimbabwean parents had given me. I was back to Chipo. Chipochashe. God’s gift. Braids and all. Kinky hair and all. Brown skin, wide hips, Zimbabwean-born and all.

I appreciate those days because they played such a major part in who I am today. They taught me not to fear the ‘In Between’ moments. They taught me what to do. When caught at a T-Junction or the crossroads – go for the route that reflects who you really are. The road with no compromise. The road with no façade.

Those days rid me of the shame I felt when I saw my skin. Those days gave me confidence and courage to face the ‘In Betweens’ and fit right in as myself.