POV: You're Stepping Into Your Black Awakening Era

moving to a big city will do that

Hey y’all,

Let’s get right into this week’s story, shall we?

For those of us, who have lived in non-diverse cities, went to PWIs, or were just not as exposed to Black culture growing up, moving out on your own to a big city with a Black population above 5% can feel like a culture shock. All of a sudden, people who look like you are visible, businesses run by people who look like you exist, and wearing your natural hair texture isn’t cause for concern. In this week’s essay by writer Aajah Sauter, she realizes that moving from her very small, conservative, and very white city to the big city of Toronto was a culture shock in the best way. Sometimes, all it really takes to change your life is to move to a new place. And Aajah’s story proves why.

Has moving to a new city changed your life? Drop your stories in the comments! And as always, if you’re enjoying the stories we publish here, don’t keep us a secret, go ahead and share with the homies 🙏🏿

Take care,

Anayo Awuzie
EIC of Carefree Media

How Moving To A Big City Started My Black Awakening Era

by Aajah Sauter

Netflix recently brought A Different World to its streaming platform, and my eyes have been glued to my TV screen ever since. I find myself enamored by the fashion, the music, and the political consciousness of the students in the show. Watching it had me wishing I attended a school like Hillman University. I envied the characters who learned independence and simultaneously developed their passions and interests due to their socially engaged campus and fellow students. Some characters, like Freddie or even Dwayne Wayne, came into their own near the later seasons, going from dorky and misguided to standing firm in their beliefs with a clearer vision for their future.

I never had that college experience, but I think I’m having an identity reckoning post-graduation.

For all four years of undergrad, I lived at home with my parents. It was a privilege— I both love and get along with them, and I saved a ton of money. At the time, I didn’t perceive my financially cushy situation as “missing out.”

But it took me moving to a new city on my own to realize that maybe I did miss out—or rather delayed the process of decoding my values, morals, and thoughts in the name of self-examination. Living alone in a bigger city has forced me to wrestle with whether these values are my own or absorbed from my parents’ code of ethics.

I grew up in Edmonton, Alberta, a province in Canada that’s pretty conservative and white. I was born to a Jamaican-Canadian mother and a biracial, Scandinavian and West African father. While Alberta is home to many African and Caribbean immigrants, they are scattered. I am a direct descendant of the African-American brothers and sisters who fled the South during Jim Crow and settled in Alberta, creating a community called Amber Valley. Such a rich history in my bloodline, and yet because of the condition of my small family and some loved ones who are no longer with us to pass down oral knowledge, I felt quite disconnected from my Blackness for much of my adolescence.

I wasn’t raised in the most Pan-African or Black-conscious house. I remember how experiencing racism and discrimination made me feel, but I lacked the terminology and historical context as to why things were the way they were. The only elements tying me to my roots were the music my aunties would play at summer cookouts and the rice and peas, oxtail, and jerk chicken my mom made for dinner once in a while. I felt extra Jamaican on Christmas Day when we made ackee and saltfish with plantain as a family for breakfast.

I don’t blame my parents for this in the slightest because they had had to code-switch and assimilate for as long as they could remember. It’s not that our Blackness went unacknowledged or uncelebrated—it was just seen as secondary. But the byproduct of the lack of conversation around race growing up was this feeling of disconnect when it came to my knowledge of African diasporic history.

In my house, it was passively accepted that racism was something that happened—we just hoped we wouldn’t encounter it as frequently or as harshly as our ancestors did. In my house, there was no talk about activism and fighting back, but rather a passive stance of climbing up the socioeconomic ladder in the aim of eventually escaping racial stereotypes.

In elementary school, I was always the only Black kid in my class. I took ballet, and I was the only one in the studio with “difficult hair” still subject to being pulled into a neatly slicked bun. I’ll never forget the first time I learned about racism. It wasn’t in a book or a conversation I had with my parents—it was in elementary school.

In maybe third grade, I was asked by a white classmate to pass her a “skin-colored” crayon. I passed her a brown one, to which she replied with absolute certainty, “That’s not skin colored.”

I continued through elementary school thinking I was ugly because my developing brain had already accepted Eurocentric beauty standards as the norm and something to strive for. Then in high school, I was fetishized and quickly learned what colorism was. It was a crazy jump from one side of the spectrum to the other—I think I got whiplash.

Up until very recently, my experience as a Black girl was primarily shaped by being told by peers that I’m not Jamaican enough because I wasn’t born on the island, enduring “lightskin” jokes, but also clearly not being white and still experiencing microaggression after microaggression.

During the BLM protests of the murder of George Floyd in 2020 , I gained fragments of what would later develop into a backbone. I remember feeling hot with anger as yet another infographic alerting the public about the death of an innocent Black person at the hands of the police flashed across my Instagram feed. Locked up with me during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, my parents would never hear the end of my rants about how frustrated I was with the systems that continually oppress us.

In hindsight, I recognize it as a mixed bag of compassion fatigue and the learned default of avoiding poking the white fragility bear that smothered the flame in me that demanded justice.

But this past fall, a metamorphosis began.

Last spring, when I accepted a job that would require me to move to Toronto in September, I thought I was only going to grow my career network. But I gained what feels like a gift from God: a community of creative, outspoken, beautiful Black people. Through simply seeing more people who look like me in ordinary spaces, I’ve developed a newfound sense of belonging.

Toronto is the HBCU I’ve always wanted to attend. Like A Different World, this city reignited my flame. From reading Black literature so I can think critically about systemic racism afflicting my immediate community to wearing Kente-printed kufi caps to the office because I feel like it, this city has granted me permission to fully flaunt my Black pride.

In Edmonton, I felt isolated from my people. We would rarely if ever gather en masse because there were no spaces made for us and by us. Fortunately, Toronto gave me the gift of unapologetic Black congregation.

I no longer feel weird wearing my afro to work because nobody asks questions about it. There are so many Black-owned businesses to shop from and so many Black girls wearing whatever they want, which encourages me to do the same.

In full embrace of this fresh wind of negritude, I went in search of historical insight. You know, the essentials. It’s what I call the Black consciousness literary starter pack.

Did I immediately go out and purchase the autobiography of Malcolm X? Why, yes! Have I read it yet? No. But I have started reading Angela Davis’s: Women, Race & Class—her thoughts on the role of women in slavery and the white feminist movement are brilliant. Malcolm X is next on the list, followed by W.E.B. Du Bois’ Souls of Black Folk and then some James Baldwin.

In pursuit of pushing back against the anti-intellectualism movement going on in North America right now, I’m choosing to equip myself with knowledge of my history so I can always call BS if necessary.

I’m stepping into what I’m calling my “Black-awakening era,” although I feel a bit like a late bloomer. Compared to the brilliant friends I’ve encountered in Toronto, I am playing catch-up, and I’m fine with that. I am just happy to be here. The church I go to: bare Black people. The run club I’m in: bare Black people. The live music events that I frequent on the weekends: you guessed it! Bare Black people. I've never seen so many Ethiopian, Ghanaian, and Nigerian restaurants sprinkled throughout a city in my life. The list of cultural spots goes on and on. Did y’all know they have a Little Jamaica here?

I couldn’t be more ecstactic about it.

Moving to a new city can help you “find yourself.” The key is moving somewhere you are appreciated, loved, and seen, and that comes through a whole lot of trial and error. It’s never too late to start learning about your roots or other topics you’re interested in. I’m accepting that it’s more than okay to be a lifelong student.

I’ve also acknowledged that I’m not any less Black just because I am not a walking encyclopedia of African history. I’m Black because I’m Black, and I don’t have to do anything to prove that. If you’re like me and stayed at home during post-secondary studies and you feel like you’ve missed out in some sort of way, I'm here to tell you that self-exploration catalyzed by the college experience is overhyped. As you mature, you are constantly evolving and meeting new versions of yourself. It’s not likely that you fully come into your own at the age of 21 or whenever you graduate. Take that pressure off

The beautiful thing about life is, if you’re fortunate enough, you can decide to reassess and reinvent at any time.

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Aajah Sauter is a Toronto-based multimedia journalist and aspiring documentary filmmaker who is passionate about celebrating the arts, critiquing culture, and reporting on social justice issues. With an extensive competitive dance background, Aajah seeks to story-tell through unique and creative mediums.