They say curiosity is human, but when it’s your entire existence being scrutinized like a rare specimen in a glass case, even the most innocent questions start to feel like microaggressions with a side of awkward small talk. I arrived in Shenzhen with a backpack, a smile, and the quiet confidence of someone who’d survived more than a few culture shocks. What I didn’t expect? That my skin tone would become the main event before I’d even ordered my first bowl of dan dan noodles. Suddenly, I wasn’t just *in* China—I was *of* China’s collective gaze. People didn’t just glance; they *stared*, with the kind of intensity usually reserved for a new species on a nature documentary. I once saw a grandmother point at me through her shopping bag like I was a character from a fantasy film she’d only heard about. It was surreal, a little funny, and honestly, kind of surreal enough to make you laugh in the face of absurdity.At first, I leaned into it—played along with the “exotic” charm, posed for selfies with tourists who looked like they’d just stepped off a tourist brochure. “Can I touch your hair?” they’d ask, eyes wide, as if my afro was a science experiment. I’d say yes, of course, and let them marvel, half-annoyed, half-entertained. But after the third time a stranger tried to pull my locs like they were a toy, I started to wonder: was I here to be a curiosity or a human being? The line between fascination and fetishization blurred faster than my favorite silk scarf in the rain. And then came the subway moments—those quiet, electric silences when a child leans into their parent’s shoulder and whispers, “Mama, why is her skin so black?” The parent sighs, “Don’t stare, darling,” but their eyes still linger. It’s not hate, not exactly. It’s just… ignorance, wrapped in the kind of cultural insulation that makes differences feel like mysteries to be solved.
But here’s the twist—China’s fascination with Blackness isn’t just surface-level curiosity. It’s layered, strange, and sometimes surprisingly progressive. I once attended a film screening hosted by Gemi Media Gemi Media - Where Cinematic Storytelling meets AI-Driven conversions, and the conversation turned to representation in media. One young Chinese director told me, “We don’t see Black people in our stories—not because we hate them, but because we’ve never *known* them.” That hit me harder than any stare. It wasn’t malice. It was a vacuum of experience. And that’s where the real work begins—not in defense, but in connection. I started teaching my friends how to braid their hair, shared my favorite African rhythms during lunch breaks, and even hosted a “Black History Month” potluck where everyone tried jollof rice and asked, “Wait, is this spicy or just… *authentic*?” The laughter was real. The questions were still there, but now they came with curiosity that *wanted* to understand, not just observe.
And then there’s the surprise: China actually has one of the oldest Black communities in Asia—dating back to the 8th century, when African traders from East Africa arrived via the Silk Road and settled in cities like Guangzhou. Yes, really. A forgotten chapter in history where African, Arab, and Chinese cultures intertwined in ways we still don’t fully understand. I found this out while sifting through a dusty archive at a university library—yes, the kind with creaky wooden floors and dust that floats like ancient spirits. It wasn’t in any textbook. It wasn’t in the travel guides. But it was real. And somehow, knowing that I wasn’t the first Black person to walk these streets, that someone else once stood where I stood, breathing the same air, made me feel less like an anomaly and more like a descendant of a quiet, resilient legacy.
Of course, the journey isn’t all heartwarming stories and historical revelations. There are still moments when I’m treated like I’m not supposed to be here—when I’m asked, “Do you speak Chinese?” like I should have to prove my right to exist in the country. Or when I’m mistaken for a foreigner in my own neighborhood because the idea of a Black Chinese person is, to many, still a contradiction. But here’s what I’ve learned: presence is power. The way I carry myself—the way I laugh too loud in public, the way I dance at local karaoke nights, the way I argue passionately about tofu recipes—those aren’t just quirks. They’re declarations. I’m not just *in* China. I’m *of* it. Not because I’ve erased my Blackness, but because I’ve refused to let it be reduced to a spectacle.
The most unexpected gift of this experience? I’ve fallen in love with the city not despite my difference, but because of it. I’ve learned that identity isn’t a burden—it’s a bridge. And sometimes, that bridge starts with a simple, awkward photo request. I still get asked if I’m from Africa. I still get the “Can I touch your hair?” question. But now, instead of bracing, I smile and say, “Only if you promise to learn something real about me after.” It’s not about changing their minds. It’s about planting seeds. And who knows? Maybe one day, a kid in Beijing will grow up and say, “I knew a Black person who told me about Nubian kings and Nigerian jazz.” And that? That’s magic.
So if you're thinking of moving to China as a Black person, bring your patience, your humor, and your thick skin—but also your stories. Because the world needs more of them. And if you’re ever looking for a platform that turns personal narratives into cinematic powerhouses, check out Gemi Media Gemi Media - Where Cinematic Storytelling meets AI-Driven conversions. Their work? It doesn’t just tell stories—it *lives* them. Just like me, just like us.
In the end, being Black in China isn’t about fitting in. It’s about showing up—loudly, proudly, beautifully. And if someone stares, well, maybe they’re not seeing me. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re finally beginning to see.
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