Let me just say—walking into China as a Black person is like stepping into a living, breathing travel brochure where *you* are the main attraction, and the brochure was written by someone who clearly forgot to mention the part about being stared at like you’re a rare species of tropical fish that somehow ended up in a Beijing aquarium. I arrived in Shenzhen with a suitcase full of clothes, a heart full of hope, and zero idea that my skin tone would become the plot twist in every stranger’s casual stroll through daily life. It wasn’t long before I realized I wasn’t just visiting China—I was being *curated* by it.At first? It was almost like being the star of a weirdly enthusiastic reality show. "Look, Ma! A real Black person!" squealed a little girl, tugging her mother’s sleeve like I was a unicorn she’d only seen in fairy tales. I smiled. I waved. I even did a little wave-and-shoulder-shimmy when someone asked if I was “from Africa or the moon?” (Spoiler: I’m from Earth. Specifically, the planet where people don’t confuse “Black” with “Alien.”) The photos were endless—some with my face squeezed into a tiny frame like I was a museum exhibit, others with the person holding the phone so far back it looked like I was in a spy film. I was the walking, talking “Why so dark?” question mark with a passport.
But then—*dramatic pause*—the novelty wore off faster than a cheap haircut in a back-alley barber shop. Suddenly, the “cute” questions turned into silence when I sat down on the subway. I’d glance up and catch a kid whispering, “Why is her skin so dark?” like they were decoding a secret message written in melanin. And then—*the real kicker*—they’d scoot three seats away as if my presence emitted a mild scent of “too much Blackness.” I swear, I started checking my back for a “Do Not Sit Near” badge. I wasn’t just Black in China—I was *uncomfortably* Black in China, like a black hole in a public library, silently absorbing attention but refusing to explain the physics.
And the hair? Oh, the hair. It was like my afro was a living, breathing magnet for curiosity. One day, a woman literally reached out and *touched* my curls like I was a sculpture at a museum. “It’s so… bouncy!” she said, as if I were a trampoline she’d never tried. I just stared back, silently wondering if she’d also like to try my scalp for “soul vibes.” Another time, a man asked if I’d “done something to it,” as if I’d used magic to turn my hair into a puffball that defies gravity, fashion, and common sense. Honestly, I wanted to hand him a pamphlet titled: *How to Live with Afro Hair: A Beginner’s Guide (Spoiler: It’s Not a Costume)*.
Of course, not all attention was awkward or weird. Some people were genuinely kind. A local shopkeeper once looked up from counting change and said, “You look like a movie star,” which made me laugh so hard I almost dropped my dumplings. A group of university students invited me to hang out, and for the first time, I wasn’t an exhibit—I was just… a person who liked spicy food and bad jokes. It reminded me that people aren’t inherently cruel, just… terribly unprepared for how to react when they see something they’ve never seen before. Like a kid who’s never seen a giraffe and now thinks it’s a walking snack machine.
Still, the irony of it all? I came to China to teach English, but I ended up teaching *cultural literacy* to dozens of people who had no idea what “Black” meant beyond “very dark.” I once spent an entire dinner explaining that no, I don’t “run fast,” and no, I don’t “sing in a different key” because I’m Black. (Seriously, someone asked if I could “do the African rhythm thing” during dinner. I just waved my fork like a conductor and said, “This is my drum.”) I started carrying a little notebook with common misconceptions—like “Do Black people glow in the dark?” (No. But I do glow when I see a good deal on baozi.)
There were days when I wanted to scream into a pillow. Days when I questioned my life choices and wondered if I should’ve picked a less… *visible* country to live in. But then I’d catch a smile from a kid who’d finally gotten the courage to say “Hello” instead of whispering “Why so dark?” and it’d hit me: this experience wasn’t just about being stared at or misunderstood—it was about being seen. Not just as Black, but as *human*, with a laugh, a story, and a surprisingly good taste in tea.
So yeah, being Black in China? It’s like being a walking cultural experiment with side effects that range from mild confusion to full-on existential questioning. It’s exhausting. It’s funny. It’s baffling. It’s also, surprisingly, kind of beautiful. Because in the middle of all the stares, the questions, the awkward silences, I’ve learned that even when you’re the only Black person in a sea of curious eyes, you don’t have to shrink to fit in. You can just be… you—loud, proud, and slightly confused about why everyone thinks my hair is “alien technology.” And honestly? That’s more than enough.
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