Worth of Words: "Talking White" As a Black Person
About the Series: Worth of Words
It’s been often said that words have power; they are the vessels of how we perceive and construct reality and our everyday lives. Yet, this power becomes nuanced when looking at just how those words come across—how they’re spoken, why they’re written, when and where they’re read. Moreover, they vary across different cultures, geographies, and times, meaning there’s a lot more to unpack than what our own lived experiences can say. Worth of Words was created to do just that—to tell the stories of our words, our accents, our voices, and our various languages, ranging from the variations of Blackness in speech to how language impacts queer identities. Our camp counselors shared their stories, both visually and auditorially, so you can read and listen to their own experiences on the power, and possible harm, of words.
A nervous sixth grader rushes out of her mother's car. Her stature well above the average middle schooler, her beautiful brown skin warm with excitement as she races towards familiar faces from primary school. There’s new additions in the group. New faces she doesn’t know, so of course she introduces herself ready to meet these new friends.
She says hello and joyfully shares with the group her summer adventures. Mid-sentence, she’s interrupted with a comment that would soon become the first thing everyone would say to her:
Film Still .gif ℅ Sorry to Bother You via Giphy
Woah, I was not expecting you to sound like that!
She stands in confusion, thinking What did you think I would sound like?
She wouldn’t address it then purely out of embarrassment, but she’d dwell on what her new friend meant by it.
I was not expecting you to sound like that.
Once lunch arrived, she finally asked what her friend meant. Her new white friend would go on to explain that she thought she’d be ghetto and have a way deeper voice. Although she hated the response, she chose not to discuss it further and replied awkwardly with “yeah hahaha.”
This was the first time I ever realized my voice didn’t “match” me. As a 5’10 plus size black woman, I’d always been different from the rest, but growing up I never thought my voice didn’t fit me. I mean, it was the only voice I’d ever had.
But I soon would deal with the constant exclaims from friends and strangers alike that my voice was different than what they’d expect. And while most meant no harm, it never sat right with me.
It always happened the same way. I’d speak in front of a crowd, and like clockwork, someone would tell me that they didn’t think I would sound like that. My least favorite variation of this comment was that I talk like a “white girl.” These claims made me furious. As a black woman, I hated when people would say that I talk white.
First and foremost, there is no such thing as talking white. Using this phrase perpetuates the stereotype that black people as a whole talk improperly. The worst realization as I got older was that the white people that would say this would say it as if it were a compliment. As if I should be happy that I “talk white.”
What made it even worse was when other black people would tell me the same thing. It confused me hearing my own people make this same statement about me. Being told I talk white or that I want to be white because of something as simple as my voice hurt. So much so that it made me wonder if I was talking incorrectly. I questioned if I should change the style of my voice, but realized how ridiculous that would be.
My voice has always been one of my favorite things about me, and I only began to question it after I’d been told it wasn’t what anyone assumed it would be.
In high school, the comments only got worse. But the one thing that stayed the same was everyone’s perception and assumption of who I would be. I was always told that they thought I’d be “mean” or “scary.” I soon learned that these racist microaggressions were falsely based on what others expect black people to be.
Grouping certain marginalized groups together and making an assumption that we’re all going to act and speak a certain way continues to allow stereotypes of minorities to progress. No one ever assumes how a white person would speak. It should be no different with me or any other black person.
I’d spent so much time explaining how my voice and the way I speak has nothing to do with my race, so much to the point that it became exhausting. I’d grown sick of having to argue with any and everyone about something I had no control of.
But, I knew if I didn’t correct them, they’d continue to say ignorant comments about it. As I’ve gotten older and the amount of people I surround myself with has gotten smaller, I hear less and less about how I sound white.
As we expand our horizons and knowledge of other people, we begin to notice that no race is exactly how they’re described in sitcoms, movies and music videos.
The entertainment industry has always played into stereotypes. Whether it was the charming, sassy black girl, Kirresha, in ‘Bring It On’ or the giant deep-voiced bodyguard, Loca, on ‘That’s So Raven.’ No matter the characteristics there’s always one thing in common: their antagonizing voice usually being “threatening” to their protagonist.
And whether realistic or not it still isn’t an accurate portrayal of all black women. The concept of an “angry black woman” has been instilled in our minds for so long that many people believe this is how all black women are.
So, when they meet someone who doesn’t fit that mold, they’re quick to make a statement that’s based in pure racism.
We all are going to speak differently because we all grew up differently. I was born in South Carolina, but raised in Miami. A lot of my extended family have a southern accent. When I go home to visit they say I talk like I’m Hispanic.
Perception wherever you are is always going to be different. What’s normal for you could be completely bizarre for someone else. There’s absolutely no way to pinpoint what someone would sound like based off of their skin.
There’s so many external factors that play into how someone talks. Dialects, accents and even tone can change with the seasons. We as people shouldn’t be so quick to categorize ourselves based on something so trivial.
I love my voice. I love the way I speak and I will never change anything about it.
About the Author
Aiyana Ishmael (she/her/hers) is a fourth year Broadcast Journalism student at Florida A&M University. There, she works as the Editor-in-Chief for their campus magazine, Journey. She loves to write and create content that highlights the diversity in black women. Her passions include fashion, sports, and fighting for equality. One day, she hopes to work in the editorial industry and break some of the current barriers that are keeping young, talented black kids out.
