Throughout my life, I’ve predominantly had white friends. In my youth, I often found myself as the sole person of color in my social circles. Yet, even at the age of ten, my friends never made me feel like an outsider; we simply shared a bond. They recognized my race but never let it affect how they treated me. However, it quickly became apparent whenever someone’s interest in our friendship stemmed solely from my being black.
As I’ve matured and gained a deeper understanding of societal dynamics, I’ve become increasingly discerning about who my genuine friends are. This reflection isn’t aimed at those who truly care about me; it’s directed at those who seek friendship out of a desire to have a black friend.
I vividly recall the first time I befriended someone who had little exposure to black individuals. In a band program that brought together kids from various backgrounds, I connected with a girl named Emily who played next to me in the clarinet section. One day, she playfully touched the back of my hair, calling it “Brillo” with a giggle. While I chuckled uncomfortably, I was at a loss for how to address her comment—after all, who discusses microaggressions at ten years old?
Once that band session ended, I never saw Emily again, but I often think about her and wonder if she eventually became friends with other black individuals. Being someone’s first black acquaintance feels significant; perhaps I should have received an award for it.
However, there’s a notable distinction between being the only black girl in a predominantly white group and being the “token” black girl. When you’re the sole representative, it can often be advantageous, and you’re generally included in the humor. But when you’re the token, you become the punchline.
For example, throughout my time in dance classes, I was always the only black girl, easily distinguishable by my height. During a routine inspired by the musical Chicago, our team split into two color groups—half dressed in white and half in black. I was fine with the black attire, as a blonde wig would have looked ridiculous on me. One day, someone joked about “the whites and the blacks.” I laughed and embraced my unique status within the group. Because I never felt marginalized due to my race, I could turn a clumsy comment into a lighthearted moment.
On the flip side, being the token is when you find yourself in a group of white friends, suggesting a hilarious Def Comedy Jam special, only to realize that you’re the only one laughing. When a friend quips, “Can we watch something actually funny?” you’re left feeling isolated while they revert to another mediocre comedian.
I can quickly identify those who will treat me as a token rather than as a friend. I don’t announce this ability, as it would deter potential friendships. I value these “friends” for multiple reasons: they aren’t bad people, I enjoy their company, and I want to give them a chance to recognize their behavior. Additionally, I need to stay informed about the latest white nonsense right from the source.
As a black woman outspoken about social issues, especially race, I have encountered a number of white feminists. Although I may classify them as friends, I always remain cautious. At the first sign of insincerity, I know they’ll reveal their true colors, showing they were never genuine allies.
They’re the ones who don pink pussy hats while ignoring the problematic implications of such imagery. They’ll post numerous Martin Luther King Jr. quotes on his memorial day, missing the core of his message completely. They might feel personally attacked by something I’ve written, yet lack the courage to confront me directly about it.
Being the token also means fielding endless questions about how to be a better ally. Friends inundate you with inquiries regarding your thoughts on significant topics like Charlottesville or athletes kneeling during the national anthem. You willingly share your perspective because you consider them friends, eager to help. Yet, when every dialogue revolves solely around your race, it becomes apparent that your friendship is superficial, focused primarily on their guilt.
To those so-called “friends,” let me clarify: my identity is not my only asset. I have a wide range of interests and am one of the most supportive allies you could have. As long as your intentions extend beyond showcasing your “wokeness,” I am here for you. However, if our exchanges only serve to highlight your discomfort with race, that’s not a true friendship.
A genuine friend doesn’t view you as a solution to their diversity issues. A true friend doesn’t forget to include you in gatherings that encompass all of your other friends.
I refuse to be an afterthought because I suddenly serve a purpose. If you were genuinely my friend, you wouldn’t complain about me behind closed doors when I call you out on your behavior. My experiences and skin color are not your pass to the “woke” club. I will not be the one to absolve your mistakes; instead, I will demand that you strive for improvement. I will not serve as the black friend you can refer to when you say, “Well, my black friend says…” That’s not my role, and I will not align myself with anyone who views me that way.
If you’re reading this and think it pertains to you, well, you might be right.
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In summary, navigating friendships as a person of color can often lead to complex dynamics, especially when individuals perceive you as a token rather than a true friend. Recognizing the difference is essential for fostering genuine relationships based on mutual respect and understanding.