Building Decoded (2023)
In Ethiopia, I was just a woman, but in Canada, I am a Black woman.
BY HAWI TULU
IMAGE BY CHESLEY DAVIS
I remember my third day in Canada when my father took me to a big office to fill out forms. He was sitting in front of me with his legs crossed, eyes on his phone. Earlier that morning, he promised we would get chicken wings for dinner afterwards, so I smiled brightly.
The questions were easy to answer, what could go wrong? I had my pen and was answering a question about myself.
Do you identify as BIPOC?
I paused because it was one of the questions I had to answer.
There was so much confusion in my head. I thought I knew everything about myself. I looked up, stared at my father, and asked him what BIPOC meant. "They are asking that if you're Black, check the yes box," he said. I did what he said and didn't pay attention to it that much.
In my head, there was a question, but I brushed it off as one of the many things I am not knowledgeable about. I said I would learn these terms in the future and was excited to discover new words, but little did I know what I learned would completely change the way I see myself.
I am originally from Ethiopia, a country in the eastern part of Africa. Where I am from, people don't look that different from each other. Race was never a thing in Ethiopia. I am not naïve, there are issues among people and the tribes back home, but that never even once raised a question about skin colour.
In Ethiopia, I was just a woman, but in Canada, I am a Black woman.
Moving here, not only did I learn that my skin colour is used as an identification batch, but I also learned that my skin being darker can be seen as a threat. I had many questions I needed answers to, but who could I ask?
I asked my father why people are divided by skin colour. "That's how it works here, " he said, the only response I ever got from him. I was insistent, so I went to my cousins who were born and raised here and asked them the same question, and their response was the same. They didn't even know that there was another world where skin colour doesn't matter, just as I didn't know there was a world where skin colour matters.
Whatever I knew about myself was erased when my legs stepped out of that plane. I had to figure out what people saw when they looked at me.
Learning that my skin colour could get me killed scared me. I would pray to God that I didn't end up in the wrong place at the wrong time because that's all it takes. It is hard to admit my thoughts, but they are my reality.
When I walk in the streets and see cops, some days, I do feel safe. I tell myself I'm just a girl going to school, working, and living an ordinary life. But most days, I'm terrified: what if they think I'm a threat? For someone like me, there might be a day when who I am wouldn't matter. I could end up tackled to the ground, knee on my neck, and my breath taken away as I scream, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe,” until I have no breath left to utter the words.
8:46 is not a Bible number like 1:16; the first time I heard about 8:46 was at a protest in Toronto for Black Lives Matter. The protest started after the death of George Floyd, a Black man murdered in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The symbol is used for police brutality: it originated on May 5, 2020, when Floyd was asphyxiated by a police officer who knelt on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds.
There is not any word in the world that can ease the pain of seeing somebody murdered like that.
This experience changed me forever. Now I am more cautious and aware of what can go wrong. That's why I'm always looking around me; the feeling of safety was left at my house a while ago. I'm praying I get home safe every night because I can end up shot dead in the street.
Yes, I am a Black woman. Some might not look at me differently, but most see me as a thief, criminal, or murderer, so how could I ever feel safe? How could I ever go back to who I was?
It was 2020 when the pandemic first hit, everything shut down worldwide, and my school was closed. I wanted to work and got hired in the Chartwell retirement home in Kitchener-Waterloo.
That was my first job ever, and I was so excited. I used to be motivated to wake up every day, fix my hair, and look good at work. My daily routine was the same: going in for eight hours and returning home. My position was as a housekeeper, and I enjoyed every part of my day.
One day I was at work, doing the same thing as I always do, when my manager told me that one of the elders accused me of eating their food. I was shocked and nervous but seriously thought it was a misunderstanding and would get solved, but it did not. I was dragged to the same room, and the elder swore they saw me. "It was her, the Black girl. Yes, I am sure she ate my supper. She is Black," they said.
I was standing at the door in disbelief. I didn't eat anyone's supper, and the fact that they were sure about it made me feel helpless; words were not coming out of my mouth, and only tears left my eyes. I stood there, unable to defend myself.
Until this day, I have those voices in my head; I couldn't keep working there anymore. I didn't understand why I was so embarrassed to be seen in that place, but this kind of humiliation will never leave you. The best thing I could do at that moment was leave, and I left.
Now I look back and ask, what if I stayed?
That was the day I found out I could be targeted based on my race. In most situations, you would believe that people can't target you, but I found myself at the door crying and letting them talk about me, criminalize me, and embarrass me.
For my big heart, learning that people can get scared of me broke me after that incident; I used to ask myself what I could do to make people safe. I used Google to see what people like about someone. I went through all stages of trying to erase who I am just to be accepted. It started with me changing my hair, I wore my curly hair a lot when I was back home. I thought straightening it would look better on me, but then it got to me criticizing everything about myself, which was the scariest stage. I neglected myself, didn't eat much, and was always depressed. I used to be anxious all the time. It took me a long time to realize that I should never change who I am for people. Slowly, I learned how to love myself.
Some issues will always be there; the only way to fix them is to talk about them, not try to erase them.
I asked myself one day why I was expecting everyone to like me when I didn't even like myself. It was a long journey, but my faith helped me see things clearer. I started seeing myself through God's eyes, not through my lenses or the windows of the world, which was my biggest accomplishment because learning to love yourself doesn't come easily. It takes courage and humility to accept yourself and how you are created and learn to live with it.
I realized the one thing no one can take away from you is who you are; no matter where you are, never let that affect and change you. You are unique everywhere, and if that is not fitting, it's okay. We have to stay true to ourselves.
I might have been scared to embrace it, but not anymore: I am a masterpiece and, proud to say, a Black woman.
Hawi Tulu is a writer and reporter for Humber News and Et Criteria. She is currently enrolled in the Humber Journalism program. You can follow her along on Twitter @HawiDTulu
Image: Building Decoded (Chesley Davis, 2023)
Edited for publication by Rebecca Starkman as part of the Creative Book Publishing program.
HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation and the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts.