When people, you the ones – the ones who ask “What’s Your Background” I always get some small satisfaction telling them I was born in Scotland. Of course, that’s not what they want to hear – but that’s what they get. I’ve always been the odd one out, a black baby in a small Scottish town, the only black player on the t-ball team, the only black person in my graduating class, the only black person at the board room table. I could go on – I’ve gotten used to it. My social and professional circles are comprised of a large amount of non-POC’s, so I wanted to share just a small part of my experience, in an attempt to continue to educate and open some eyes.
When we first moved to Canada in 1988, my family moved to a small rural town of about 1,200 people in Ontario. Here I should note that my entire family is white, my mother, father and sister – you can figure it out. My very first friend in Dundalk was white, every single person in my school was white every single person in the town was white….with the exception of one Asian family. In an attempt to make friends, my mother signed me up for Beavers, well she tried to. Initially, they tried to talk my mother out of it, because they were afraid I “didn’t fit in”. Granted I was too young to understand, and my mother shielded me from this – eventually she caused a big enough stir that I was “allowed” to join. This was just the beginning of a series of events, that would begin to feel normal, and would inevitably shape who I am today.
a boy at school called me (N-WORD), I cried…and then I asked her what it meant
I was talking with my mother the other day, and she told me a story that I have no recollection of. She recalled a time I came home from school, probably grade 2 or 3, and I headed straight to the stairs with a confused but angry look on my face. She stopped me and asked what was wrong, I told her a boy at school called me (N-WORD), I cried…and then I asked her what it meant. Even at that young age, I knew it wasn’t a good thing, I imagine I knew it was meant to make me feel different, but the gravity of the word was just settling in.
I’ve always worked, ever since a young age, I’ve had a job. I was the youngest paperboy in town, the youngest “Petroleum Distribution Engineer” as I called myself at the gas station and the youngest person at my first advertising agency. There was a time when I was closing the gas station for the night, as I had done many many times before. After I closed up, I went home and went to bed. At some point in the night, the power had gone out. I awoke to my mother coming into my room and telling me that the gas station had been robbed overnight, and there were two cops downstairs who wanted to talk with me. I was 14 or 15 years old, they took me, away from my mother and father, and questioned me…alone at the makeshift police station in the town hall. I was a minor and I was alone. These two grown men informed me that the power went out, because the main powerbox (you know the big green ones) in the town was essentially blown up, which deactivated the alarm system at the gas station..as well as most of the power in town. After walking through my closing routine, asking if I saw anything different or suspicious, they started to insinuate and even pressure that I had something to do with it. I distantly remember them saying “you don’t want to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life”.
For the most part, high school was ok, had a few times some kids used the n-word with me, either jokingly or not, but I was quick to squash it – once rather aggressively – the kid cried, and apologized. There was a time when I was followed home, right to my driveway by a police officer. Once I pulled into my driveway, he forced me to provide my ID. Remember this is a town of 1200 people, most people know each other, however, at this point, the black population doubled to a total of 2 – and he thought I was and I quote “the other one”.
In the decade and a half, since I’ve left college and I’ve been working in the Ad Industry, I’ve seen a steady slow change in the demographics at the board tables. I was regularly and still am quite often the only POC at the table – and its not always a comfortable feeling. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some fantastic mentors of all colours and genders throughout that I will be forever grateful for. I share these deeply personal stories in hopes of helping guide a conversation, in helping others understand our pain and our exhaustion over lifetimes of being treated as less-than. I ask that my non-POC friends can look back on their upbringing and see how they can relate and perhaps not relate to ours. I ask that they recognize the privileges that they have been given, and use those privileges to help us all move forward.
thank you for reading
thank you for aiming to understand
thank you for being here
-Justin ✊🏾