I Used to Hate MLK Day

Photo Credit: NY Public Library

I didn’t grow up with #BlackGirlMagic.

I grew up in a wypippo house, on a wypippo street, with wyippo parents. You see, my OG Black Dad exited my life when my adoptive father (hithertofore referred to as “my Dad”) claimed sole rights to be so when I turned one. I don’t remember him well. I only remember white faces.

Growing up, I identified as Indigenous.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, my Mother didn’t want to talk about my OG Black Dad. I don’t know if that was important to my Dad, or important to her, or important to someone, but we didn’t talk about it. Instead, we talked about my Native grandpa. My Mom would refer to him when I had questions about my skin. “We’re Native. That’s why your skin is brown.” (I realize this is problematic. More about my Mother at a later time.)

You see, my Mom is German and Native, and looks very, very white. My Dad is English and Native, and also looks very, very white. Me? I look like my Native grandpa. When I look at the pictures of him, his tan skin looks like mine, and the shape of his face, his eyes look like mine. Until my parents got around to talking about my OG Black Dad, it was my Indigenous identity that explained why no one in my house looked like me. Having brown skin is a very specific existence in these United States, and my parents couldn’t relate. They didn’t know about being called the “n” word, or about some guy assuming you’re the 11-year-old maid at the hotel where you’re actually a guest. They don’t know about how little white kids tell you that you would have been a slave if you had been born in the 1800’s, and they don’t know about all the heads turning to look at you on MLK Day.

I used to hate MLK Day. MLK Day is the one day a year that everyone in your class looks at you to be the representative of an entire race. You’re asked about what Dr. King specifically means to you. You’re asked to speak about how life for you and your family is so much better now because of his “sacrifice”. (To be clear, he didn’t sacrifice anything. He was murdered.) When I was a kid, I would wonder, “Why is everybody looking at me?”

Let me be clear. Since discovering my OG Black Dad, I’ve immersed myself in my Black history and heritage, and I am proud to be a member of the Black community. I love my Blackness.

Growing up, though? I didn’t know about my Blackness, and even if I had, we were never told about the #magic. Neither my blackness nor my nativeness was ever valued or validated. I didn’t see myself reflected back to me in any positions of power. My teachers were white, my principals were white, the administrators were white, and local politicians were white. I and my POC classmates were allotted one day in January, and sometimes parts of February, if you had a teacher that was “woke”. Every other day we’d continue centering Whiteness, no matter how many of us there were, or our ethnic backgrounds. I guess we all looked the same.

While we talked about Dr. King, Harriet Tubman, and Rosa Parks, no one ever had any interest in learning about Indigenous folx. Everyone thought my people were dead. They called it the Battle of Little Bighorn, not the Battle of the Greasy Grass, and no one had ever heard of the Massacre at Wounded Knee. Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull were just names, and the Trail Where They Cried was a blip. By the way, Andrew Jackson’s face still continues to deface US currency. My AP U.S. History teacher once made a joke at me about the National Museum of the American Indian (I was in high school as it was being built)- he told me I wouldn’t have to stand in line because he thought they were taking “reservations”. He used to casually leave a copy of an Andrew Jackson biography on my desk. I guess he thought it was funny to see the look on my face.

So I hated MLK Day. I resented it. I hated that no one ever cared about me or my family except for during the week we read the “I Have A Dream” speech. I hated that people made assumptions about me because I was brown. I hated that the parts of me I knew about and celebrated didn’t get a special day, and were never talked about unless we were *mAkInG dReAm cAtChErS* or talking about Thanksgrieving. After I learned about my OG Black Dad, I then felt guilty on MLK Day. I felt guilty for not knowing as much as I should, guilty for my past resentment, and angry that somehow all those white kids and teachers were “right”- Dr. King did stand for us all. 

In fact, I still sometimes hate MLK Day, albeit for very different reasons. I hate that it’s the day white folx repost his picture with some platitudes about being “nice”, or “doing the right thing”, as though he wasn’t vilified and hated while he lived. As though the FBI didn’t stalk him and send him letters telling him to kill himself. As though he would approve of the current state of our nation. 

In grade school, I was Indigenous. In college and beyond I was Black. It’s taken years of work, but finally I’ve learned to hold both. Strangely, as I’ve integrated all of the parts of myself (yes, the white parts too), I’m making my peace with MLK Day. I’m now prepared for all the heads in the room to turn and look at me, as I take up space with our collective truth. I want to stand in front of a room full of white educators and counselors, healers, and local politicians. I’m going to center my experiences, and celebrate my nose, and talk about how the system we live in actively oppresses all my relations. 

I am rooted here, through my blood and the history of my people, and I helped to found artic LLC to show up for my folx. I speak the language of Whiteness, and walk the path of my ancestors, and willingly offer myself as a bridge, to help us cross over from oppression to equity. On the day that I once hated, I’m now and forever celebrating, and celebrating means honoring, teaching, and advocating. I will stand as a representative of my peoples and show you the #magic.

I want every day to be MLK Day.

In Solidarity,

Rebecca Davis