You know, when I first stepped off the plane in Shenzhen, I didn’t realize I was walking into a real-life human zoo—complete with a front-row seat, a free photo pass, and a permanent spotlight. The stares? Oh, they weren’t just glances—they were full-on, wide-eyed, “Is that a real human or a cartoon?” kind of stares. I once got asked if I “dye my skin” by a grandmother who looked like she’d just stepped out of a traditional ink painting. I nearly laughed, but then I remembered: this wasn’t a joke. It was my new reality. And honestly? At first, it was kind of fun—like I’d been invited to a global curiosity convention with VIP access to awkward questions and curious selfies. “Do you glow in the dark?” someone asked. I said, “Only when I’m on the subway during rush hour and everyone’s silently judging my personal space.” But then came the moment I realized I wasn’t just a novelty—I was a performance. A living, breathing, slightly embarrassed act. I’d be minding my own business at a café, sipping a matcha latte like I belonged, when someone would whisper loudly, “Wow, she’s *so* black!” as if I were a rare species in the wild, and they’d just discovered me through binoculars. Kids would point, not with malice—no, that would’ve been too dramatic—but with the kind of innocent, unfiltered curiosity that somehow felt even more cutting. One little boy, probably five, leaned over to his mom and said, “Mommy, why does she look like a chocolate bar?” I didn’t even know whether to laugh or cry. Or both. I ended up just smiling and saying, “Yeah, but I’m more delicious than a KitKat.” The kid blinked. His mom turned beet red. Mission accomplished.
The subway became my personal stage. I’d sit, try to read a book, and suddenly my personal space would be invaded by the kind of eye contact that said, “I’ve never seen a Black person in real life before—can I touch your arm to confirm it’s not a costume?” I once had a woman try to “test” my hair’s texture by gently tugging at a strand like she was assessing a rare silk fabric. I didn’t even flinch—mostly because I was already mentally drafting my memoir: *How I Survived 100+ Unwanted Hair Touches in One Week.* I’m not exaggerating. I counted. I had a tally sheet. It was more accurate than my bank balance.
And the jokes? Oh, the jokes were the crown jewel. Not the ones I told, mind you—those were usually met with polite confusion or a confused “Huh?”—but the ones people *assumed* I’d appreciate. “You must be really strong, right?” one guy said, eyeing my arms like I was built for Olympic weightlifting. I replied, “Only when I’m carrying my own dignity.” Another asked, “Do you get sunburned?” I said, “Only when I walk into a room full of people who think I’m a walking stereotype.” They laughed. I didn’t. But I did take a picture anyway. For the story.
There were moments, though, when it all clicked into place—not as spectacle, but as humanity. Like that time I helped an elderly man carry groceries, and he looked at me with that quiet gratitude, like, “You’re just a person. And that’s enough.” No questions. No photos. No “wow, you’re so black.” Just a nod, a “Thank you, young man,” and a smile that said, *I see you*. That moment felt like oxygen after months of being a walking exhibit. It reminded me that I wasn’t just a Black body in China—I was a Black *person* in China. And that made all the difference.
Now, I still get asked if I “speak Chinese,” even though I’ve been here five years and my accent is now more “local” than my neighbors’. I smile and say, “I speak English, Mandarin, and the universal language of side-eye when someone tries to touch my hair again.” They laugh. I don’t. But I *do* laugh when I think about the time someone told me I “must be from Africa” and I said, “Nope. I’m from the same place you are—where people are just people, not labels.” They stared. Then they said, “Huh.” And that? That was victory.
Being Black in China hasn’t been easy. It’s been exhausting, confusing, and occasionally hilarious in ways only someone who’s lived it can understand. But it’s also been transformative. It taught me how to be resilient without being bitter, how to find humor in absurdity, and how to walk through a crowd not as a spectacle—but as someone who deserves to be seen, not just stared at. And honestly? After all the awkward questions, the unwanted touches, and the “Why are you so black?” whisperings, I’ve come to realize: the most powerful thing I can do is just… be.
So if you’re ever wondering what it’s like being Black in China, just know this: it’s not just about being stared at. It’s about choosing to stare back—with confidence, with laughter, and yes, even with a little sass. Because in the end, the world doesn’t get to define you—it just gets to watch you live. And trust me, I’m not just surviving. I’m *serving*.
Add a Comment
