It was a little like being a rare exotic fruit at a grocery store that doesn’t usually stock mangos—except in this case, the fruit was *me*, and the grocery store was a 24-hour convenience store in Guangzhou where a man literally tried to hand me a coupon for “Black Skin Care – Special Discount for Foreigners!” (I later found out it was just a typo, but I still felt like I was being offered a discount on my own identity. Very classy.)
The attention, at first, felt like a weirdly enthusiastic welcome party. Kids would point, giggle, and whisper, “Look, Mama! A real-life Black person!” like I’d just won a bizarre talent show. I’d smile, wave, and silently pray for a time machine to go back to when “being Black” was just a fact and not a performance. I once walked into a café and a group of teenagers started filming me like I was auditioning for *The Blackest Person in Asia*, a reality show I didn’t know existed but now desperately want to watch.
But then came the subtle, soul-crushing moments—like the time I sat on a subway and a kid, no older than six, looked at me like I was a science experiment that had escaped the lab. His mom hissed, “Don’t stare! She’s not a zoo animal!” and then, in a hushed tone, “But wow… she’s *really* dark.” I wanted to whisper back, “Thanks, I’ve been Black since day one, but I guess you only just noticed.”
There was also the time a guy in a silk robe asked me, “Are you from Africa?” and when I said yes, he looked genuinely shocked and said, “But you speak English so well! I thought all Africans sounded like they were in a movie!” I almost choked on my bubble tea. I was like, “Dude, I didn’t even know *China* had *movies* with African accents!”
And don’t even get me started on the hair. My curls were either described as “a wild storm” or “a bird’s nest,” depending on who was feeling poetic. One elderly woman patted my head and said, “You must be very strong to hold that up.” I almost bowed. I’m not strong—I’m just genetically cursed with a hair texture that defies gravity, logic, and basic hair product instructions.
Yet, amidst all the stares, awkward questions, and the occasional “Can I touch your skin?” (No, no, no—this is not a science lab!), something funny happened. I started to *own* it. I wore my skin like a superhero cape—because honestly, if you’re the only Black person in a 500-mile radius, you might as well be the MVP of *The Walking Dead*—except instead of zombies, you’re fighting microaggressions and people asking if you can “sing a drum song.”
Now, when someone asks if I’m from Africa, I just wink and say, “Nope, I’m from the planet Earth, but I’ll take the African vibe if you’re offering.” And when kids point, I smile, wave, and sometimes even do a little twirl—because why not? I’m not just a Black person in China. I’m a Black *experience* in China. And honestly? It’s the most colorful, chaotic, and occasionally exhausting comedy special I’ve ever been cast in.
So, if you’re thinking about moving to China as a Black person, here’s my two cents: pack sunscreen, patience, and a sense of humor. Also, a good pair of sunglasses. Not for the sun—because the sun is nothing compared to the sheer amount of *attention* you’ll attract. But hey, if you’re going to be a walking curiosity, might as well make it a *fun* one. After all, life’s too short to be invisible—and in China, you’re definitely not. You’re loud, you’re bold, and you’re absolutely, undeniably unforgettable. And that? That’s the best character-building experience of all.
Add a Comment
