My Character-Building Experience of Being Black in China

I once thought being a Black person in China would be like stepping into a living museum, where every glance was a curator’s verdict on my existence. But here’s the kicker: the museum had a 24/7 snack bar, and I was the main attraction. People would snap photos like I was a rare bird—except I wasn’t. I was just a Black guy with a slightly different shade of melanin, which, according to some, was “too dark to be cool but not dark enough to be a stereotype.” It was like being both the punchline and the joke.

The first time a kid asked, “Why does your skin look like a burnt marshmallow?” I nearly laughed myself into a coma. But then I realized the real problem wasn’t the question—it was the way the kid’s mom clutched her child’s hand like I was a walking hazard. It’s wild how a simple curiosity can turn into a full-blown cultural panic. I’ve since learned to carry a pamphlet titled *“Black People Are Not a Science Experiment”* in my pocket, just in case.

There’s a certain poetry in how China’s obsession with “color” works. I once had a barista ask if I was “a dark chocolate or a milk chocolate” person. I replied, “I’m a Black man, not a dessert.” The look on her face? Pure confusion. It’s like I’m trying to explain quantum physics to a toddler. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to order a latte without being interrogated about my ancestry.

One day, I walked into a convenience store and a guy in line behind me whispered, “She’s like a Black unicorn!” I nearly dropped my snacks. Let me clarify: I’m not magical, I’m not a mythical creature, and I definitely don’t have a horn. But hey, if that’s the best they can come up with, I’ll take it. At least I’m not a ghost.

I’ve learned to embrace the awkwardness. When kids point and whisper, I smile like I’m the star of a reality show. It’s not about being a spectacle—it’s about being a spectacle with a sense of humor. I’ve even started giving impromptu “Black Culture 101” lessons to curious strangers. “Yes, we can do the wave. No, we don’t all have a thing for watermelon. And no, I’m not a member of the NBA.”

There’s a certain charm to being the “other” in a place where “other” is a verb. I’ve had people ask if I’m from Africa, the moon, or a sci-fi movie. I’ve even been mistaken for a tourist from a different country, which is just sad. But here’s the thing: I’ve turned my outsider status into a superpower. I’m like a cultural chameleon, except I don’t change color—I just change stories.

The best part? The absurdity of it all. I once had a man in a restaurant yell, “Why is she so loud?” as I laughed at a joke I didn’t even understand. I responded, “Because I’m Black, and we’re known for our vibrant personalities.” He looked at me like I’d just revealed the secret to immortality. I guess that’s the price of being a walking enigma.

In the end, being Black in China taught me that curiosity is a double-edged sword. It can be annoying, but it’s also a reminder that I’m not invisible. I’ve learned to laugh at the stares, dance through the whispers, and turn awkward moments into stories. After all, if life gives you a front-row seat to a cultural circus, you might as well wear a clown costume and throw confetti. Who knew being different could be this much fun?

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