Let’s just say stepping off the plane in Shenzhen felt like walking into a real-life episode of *The Amazing Race*—except instead of solving riddles, I was solving the mystery of why every third person on the street paused mid-step to stare, then subtly reach for their phone. I’d smile, wave, and internally whisper, “Yes, I’m real. Yes, I *do* have a passport. And yes, my hair is not a wig—though I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’m a walking Afrocentric fashion show.” The attention was relentless, like a full-time job I never applied for—except instead of a paycheck, I got constant questions like “Do you eat chicken with your fingers?” (No. But I *do* eat chicken with my hands when I’m alone and the mood strikes, and that’s not a life hack, that’s *survival*.)At first, I leaned into it. I’d strike poses for selfies, explain how my curls are naturally coiled (not “bushy,” not “wild”—*engineered by nature*), and even taught a few curious kids how to pronounce “kente cloth” without choking on the ‘k’ sound. It was like being a cultural ambassador—except my embassy didn’t have a flag, just a lot of bewildered faces and a free supply of confused “WOW” emojis. I even got mistaken for a celebrity on a film set once. (Spoiler: I was just trying to buy dumplings, and the crew thought I was there for a walk-on role in a period drama about African traders in the Ming Dynasty.)
But then came the moment I realized: admiration has a shelf life, and mine expired the second I stepped onto a crowded subway and a mother pulled her kid back like I was a mildly contagious fruit. “Don’t touch her,” she hissed, as if I’d been dipped in radioactive ketchup. The kid shot me a look that said, “You’re not a person. You’re a science experiment.” I tried to laugh it off, but my smile felt like a glitch in a poorly coded video game—stiff, unnatural, slightly terrifying. That’s when I realized the attention wasn’t just curiosity. It was a spotlight that didn’t shine equally—some people were dazzled, others were wary, and I was stuck in the middle, like a Black statue in a garden of porcelain figurines.
There was also the time a man asked me, “Do you like China?” like I was a tourist in my own skin. I paused. “Well, I *did* like it more before I realized I’m the only Black person in the 20-mile radius and everyone thinks I’m here to teach them how to dance the samba.” He blinked. “But you’re not from here?” “No. I’m from *Earth*, actually. The one with the blue oceans and the slightly overrated weather.” He looked genuinely relieved. “Oh good. We were afraid you were an alien in disguise.”
And yes, the jokes? Oh, they’re *unavoidable*. I once joked during a bar crawl that I’d been mistaken for a “rare species” so many times I was considering joining the local wildlife conservation program. One guy replied, “Wait—so you’re *not* a black panther?” I stared. He wasn’t joking. I laughed so hard I nearly fell into a fountain. That’s when I knew: humor might be the only thing that keeps me from turning into a permanent exhibit at the “World’s Most Confusing Tourist Attraction” museum.
Still, there’s a quiet beauty in the absurdity. I’ve had strangers hand me snacks because they thought I was “starving” (I wasn’t—I was just *really* into bao buns). I’ve been asked if I speak “African” (I speak English, Chinese, and the universal language of side-eye). I’ve walked through markets where people leaned in like I was about to drop a secret recipe for “How to Be Black.” And through it all, I’ve learned something important: being Black in China isn’t about fitting in—it’s about *being seen*, even if the world still tries to define me in terms of “rare,” “exotic,” or “not quite human.”
So here I am—still not a panther, still not a tourist, still not a mystery to solve. Just a Black woman with curly hair, a stubborn sense of humor, and a heart that refuses to shrink under stares, assumptions, or the occasional “Why is your skin so shiny?” (Because I moisturize, sir. It’s called *self-care*. Try it sometime.) If anything, my time here has taught me that identity isn’t about where you’re from—it’s about how you choose to show up, even when the whole world wants to turn you into a photo op. And honestly? I’m okay with that. I’ve got *all* the angles.
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