My President is Black, My Lambo is Blue
doing away with the "acceptable black woman" trope and being authentic in professional spaces.
Imposter syndrome is kicking my ass. It is a revolutionary time to be a Black woman in America. VP Harris could become the first Black woman President of the US; Simone, Jordan, and Sha’Carri absolutely dominated at the Olympics (and I don’t care what the gymnastics arbitration court says); and we’re simultaneously mourning and celebrating the legacy of Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee. Alysha, however, is having a lot of wild feelings about starting at Duke. Y’all remember when I mentioned that I was 1 of a few Black students in my program? Oh yeah, that’s sitting heavily on my spirit as the orientation barrels towards me. Yes, I know I’m just the coolest or whatever—but what was it that granted me acceptance into a program with a less than 10% acceptance rate? And why doesn't anyone else in this program look like me?
I’ve been managing in non-Black spaces since I was in the 7th grade; I went to a PWI*, and I’ve worked in pediatrics and specialty areas for the bulk of my nursing career (I want y’all to really reflect on how many Black nurses you see in pediatric OR and the PICU.) None of this shit is new to me, okay! But, recently, in therapy, I discovered the root of this anxiety I have surrounding being a part of the minority once again—it’s because I’m tired of performing.
I always say that I feel like I either deserve an Oscar or an DID* diagnosis because I am exceptional at turning “it” on. If I’m walking into the room of a nice little Southern family—I dig into my North Florida roots and turn on that twang. If I happen upon a patient who looked like me—respectfully, we’re play-play cousins until I clock out. If I have the dreaded “VIP” patient, I’m making sure I’m in that room and able to explain the mechanism of action of medications as simple as colace.
However, I recall the many times attempting to adapt to my environment didn’t save me—peers saying I talked like a white person, classmates saying I was too loud or too sassy, patients questioning how many times I had to sit for my board exam, or if I was the CNA*. Naturally, these encounters only fueled my desire to get better at code-switching, so I wouldn’t get asked these questions.
As I got older, and my environments became more complex (and monotoned) I was pleased to mint myself a social chameleon. When I was working on the practicum project for my BSN* with the President of a local hospital—and even when I was interviewing for grad school—I made sure to make myself as socially acceptable as possible. No loud jewelry, gold hoops vanished, hair pulled back into a tight bun that hides my coils, and my colloquialisms tuned to perfection. It worked, and it still works, but I’m very over it.
Women, especially Black women, are not a monolith. It doesn’t help that I’ve always been trained to and praised for presenting in a way that is both socially acceptable and unexpected of me. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve gotten the dreaded, “you’re not what I would’ve expected” or “you’re so put together.” If we’re being honest, that shit has given me a complex. Would they still say that if they knew I took the stockings off in the bathroom of the hospital after my interview because I felt like I was suffocating; or if they knew my bun was out and my hair was wild and free before I’d even left the parking garage; or that I don’t normally talk as if I use the Encyclopedia Brittanica for night-time reading; or if they knew that this was all a costume, and I’d much rather be anywhere else???
At the end of the day, I just want to advance my education and career in a way that doesn’t leave me questioning whether my behavior was acceptable, or professional enough.
So, this time around, I’m going to honor myself, and my feelings, and be authentic to who I am. I’m breaking up with code-switching, closets exclusively filled with Ann Taylor Loft, and having to flex my achievements to justify my presence.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still terrified that I’ll get to school, and they’ll tap me on my shoulder and tell me that they’ve made a mistake. I worry that my decision to go into this journey authentically will bite me in the ass. I literally asked my therapist recently if she thought it would be socially acceptable for me to wear a twist out to class. The 2nd year students of my program warned us to always be cautious in and around the school, because you never know who’s listening. Does that mean I’ll get a talking to for bumping Trick Daddy to decompress while pulling into the Whole Foods near campus? Surely not. But I’m wondering how I will navigate this journey without feeling like I must constantly monitor or reprimand myself. I honestly think it’s just going to be one of those things I take day by day.
All I know is that I’m going to cease operating in a way that minimizes the core of who I am.Taking a stance that allows me to authentically choose myself is an act of revolution.
I’m going to persevere with my extra-large L.L. Bean boat-and-tote that has ‘trainwreck’ affixed to the front of it in large purple letters, and buy the gold bangles that I’ve had saved in my phone for nearly a year for fear that they’d be too distracting, and stop avoiding using AAVE* in the workplace. If a Black woman who graduated from the HBCU* can go on to make a serious run for leader of the free world, all while keeping her Greek letters, her silk press, and her affinity for P-Funk, surely, I can be comfortable with not shrinking myself anymore.
Abbreviations Index
DID: Dissociative Identity Disorder
PWI: Predominantly White Institutions
BSN: Bachelor of Science in Nursing
CNA: Certified Nursing Assistant
AAVE: African American Vernacular English
HBCU: Historically Black Colleges and Universities
No matter who you’re choosing this election cycle, please make sure you’re registered to vote! And don’t forget to vote down-ballot!