Black Girl in Berlin
“Do you think it was because of something you wore?”
This was my mother’s response after I shared that I had been gaslit by a ticket enforcer on the Berlin transit system earlier that day. For some time I could not figure out why this question bothered me so much. Why I felt so unearthed by being asked what I did to provoke and deserve such an intense and unfounded reaction from an authority figure.
As much as I don’t want to be a part of Think Piece Twitter, I couldn’t help feeling like his actions were designed to provoke me into a reaction that he could deem as a threat. Inches from my face, I could feel him trying to draw out the angry Black woman inside of me. So often Black women are characterized as angry or sassy, particularly U.S.-American Black women. And we have every right to be angry, as an identity that is erased in the language of diversity and left at the bottom of the ladder to bear the emotional burden of making race and gender real for those who have the privilege not to see. We are also stripped of our ability to express emotions. I’m reminded of Serena Williams or Lisa Calderon, both of whom were penalized and castigated for reacting to the most ridiculous and obvious incidents of racial profiling. Hushed, silenced, and written off as crazy, they were not able to have the emotional reaction that was warranted by the circumstances. Even in the most extreme situations, Black women deserve the right to express whatever emotions are deemed necessary without being categorized as threatening, crazy, or angry.
I’ve been in Berlin for 6 weeks, living and working as a part of my master’s fellowship. There aren’t many Black women, let alone Black Germans. Rhetorically the designation of Afro-German is a complete contradiction for a nationality that innately means white. Since coming here I’d already felt this tension of not belonging. And while most people are tolerant of my existence, some don’t hesitate to let me know that I am foreign in every way. Having to exude confidence in this setting, where people open their doors but aren’t exactly welcoming, always questioning, and darkly curious about my being, it’s been hard, to say the least.
In the BVG office, I took a ticket, waited, and watched. Of the 30 or so people in the office most of them were people of color. Is this a coincidence, too? I couldn’t help but feel that there was something untoward that had happened on the train that day. This was not my first encounter with BVG transit enforcers in Berlin. I had been checked the previous afternoon and validated without incident. On the day that I was fined, I had also been checked by another female enforcer who seemed to be mostly satisfied with my documentation. As I stepped off the train to collect my documents, she consulted with her colleague who’s eyes seemed to lock onto me despite having another passenger to attend to. As he turned towards me, I felt myself entering a cognitive tension of wanting to exude my personal power and security while also wanting to be small enough not to seem too threatening. He stepped closer and escalated his voice, my eyes locked into his. “Don’t look at me in my eyes, look at your ticket.” Defiantly, I wanted to hold him accountable and make clear that his behavior was wrong. Belligerently, he continues to escalate, repeating the same phrase despite my requests for clarification. He seemed to be attempting to draw a different reaction from me. Eventually, dissatisfied with my calmness despite the circumstance; just beneath the surface, I was boiling. He handed me off to his female colleague who issued the ticket.
My work is in diversity, equity, and inclusion. Perhaps my glasses are rose-colored, but this felt more like a fine for being different rather than having the wrong pass on the subway. I am always looking for the ways in which difference is perceived and received by dominant cultures. My personal experience is also one that causes me to feel the tension of belonging and not being made to feel as though I belong. As I looked across the Black and brown faces in the transit office, I believed we were all there because our difference crossed a line.
As I sit today, reflecting and trying to understand why it is that I’ve been so uncomfortable over the past few weeks, I find that it is again about who I am: I am a proud Black woman, which is a revolution in and of itself. We cannot continue to make excuses for people who mistreat us, this does little more but continue the social/cultural behaviors that penalize us, sexualize us and gaslight us just for being strong in our identity. While it can be isolating to stand in contradiction and tension, I find comfort in knowing I am not truly alone.
