Ignorance or Racism: Being Black in Beijing
Today marks my second month living in Beijing. I’ve gotten used to the occasional 350 air quality index day, where visibility is low and awkward face masks become inevitable. I’ve gotten used to the cars, bikes and buses that seem more abundant than the people. But more impactfully, I’ve gotten used to the eyes that meet me everyday as I walk to school on a path I’ve taken a hundred or so times, a path where sets of eyes find a 6’5” black male wearing a Beijing high school uniform.
During the first few weeks of arriving, when nursery school aged children, accompanied with their parent, noticed me, raised a small arm bundled in a winter coat, pointed and said “Heiren!” My eyes instinctively rolled, my breaths deepened and my feet paced faster across the dirty streets of Xinjiekouwai; the small child’s words reminding me of a moment last year when a black prep shared an event in her past where “You’re black!” became an insult. Is this what this child was doing? I look back long enough to see that the parent stares, too, passively encouraging the child’s remark.
Today, while either walking across the public square that is Tiananmen or sitting at the local coffee shop with other fellow SYA classmates suffering from procrastination, I know that I have become not only a talking point, but a photo sent to someone living in rural China or a proof-of-black-friend photo to someone visiting from afar. There isn’t one day in Beijing that I’m not reminded that I am black.
But, it’s different.
In Beijing, I’ve learned to sum up Beijingers’ reactions as ignorance—the lack of knowledge. Whether I am the first black person someone has seen or the 100th, I recognize that I now live in a community where discussions surrounding race seldom occur and when they do, they even more rarely include the black race.
Being called black in Beijing is an observation; I’ve learned to accept it, not as an insult, but as a fact—I am black, black I am. In America, being black makes me a convenient lint roller to the populous—opinions, judgments and expectations of society sticking to my image, causing others to be hesitant to know what’s behind. In Beijing I don’t have to worry about that. Or do I?
Being aware that Chinese rural communities are known to experience more racism than cities such as Beijing, which has experienced a lot of racial diversity, even having sections of the city that are notorious for waiguoren, I know that the eyes of those I pass could very well be those of racists, of those that look down upon me, of those that attach judgments without thought. It’s concerning to think about what my host parents and younger brother initially thought of me or what the CVS lady from whom I buy a Nongfu water bottle every walk home thought of me when we shared our first nihao. Is there nowhere to live and not worry about preconceived judgments due to the color of my skin? Being black in America and being black in Beijing aren’t the same, but as I pass a middle-aged Beijinger, his head turning in surprise, our eyes meeting for a split second, I realize that the gap in similarity is closing fast. ♥