Rural Texas wears a friendly facade. You know everyone, and everyone treats each other so kindly, but, if you’re Black, you just ignore the stares when you walk into the local steakhouse for fish fry night.
I was 7 or 8 when I realized I would always be treated differently than my white friends. It was picture day and I was waiting in line near our classroom and watching as my teacher fixed every girl’s hair. I eagerly waited for her to fix mine, but she never did. I assumed it was because my hair was already twisted into three cute ponytails, a classic hairstyle for little Black girls.
But when I got home and asked my mom, she told me my teacher didn’t know what to do since my hair had a different texture than my friends’.
When I was in the seventh grade, I was called the n-word. I didn’t need to ask my mom what the word meant; I already knew. You’re taught at a young age if you’re Black. You’re taught never to say that word. It’s a slur. It’s a dirty word. The kid who called me that slur was a bully and I was a straight-A/B student. I never did anything wrong. (I can’t even tell you what detention was like!) My mom expected the best, so I became the best I could be. I remember telling her and crying. I was hurt.
A day later, he apologized after my mom told the school. I was surprised the school took action even in the early 2000s. I don’t recall being called that slur again. This was part of the good side of growing up in a place I’ll call “Smallstown” (since I still live here), a southeast Texas town where about one in five residents is Black. Many people try to do the right thing.
But throughout my academic and personal life, I experienced subtler forms of small-town racism—warm and welcoming with flashes of ugliness.
In 2005, my brother, mom, and I went to a local clothing store to buy a suit for his high school prom. As soon as we opened the door, we were immediately greeted. You would think that would be amazing customer service, but it wasn’t friendly. Family friends, who are also Black, told us they’d gotten the same greeting—it was pure racism.
Being stopped at the door was embarrassing. My family doesn’t steal. If I can’t afford it then I don’t need it. No one in my family has shopped there since. But to this day, I still get followed at a local big box store, especially when I’m eyeing the latest gaming systems.
My mom raised me to be intelligent and to think creatively. I grew up around books and learned about the world around me. I was raised on academics and hoped my smarts and studies would take me far.
Sometimes I was made fun of for talking “white.” (To this day, I have no idea what that meant.) I didn’t speak like the other Black kids did so I suppose that gave others something to laugh about—a kind of reverse racism.
In high school, I discovered a love for rock music. I was the only Black girl at Smallstown High who listened to rock. I loved Slipknot and other popular bands. I still do. I remember a particularly odd moment in history class my senior year. Our teacher was a coach and, for him, the stereotype was true: Coaches that teach often don’t care about the subject. One day my musical preferences came up in class and the teacher said, “You’re a Black girl who likes rock music? I would have dated you in high school.” Everyone thought that was weird.
In 2007, I escaped Smallstown to attend Sam Houston State University (SHSU) in Huntsville, where fortunately, I had fewer experiences with racism. But I recall that when Barack Obama was reelected I and other Black students got a text warning us to stay indoors. Otherwise, nothing stood out. I felt my race didn’t matter in Huntsville. The “townies” (we loved calling Huntsville people that as if they were the visitors and we weren’t) treated me differently only because I was a college student—a younger, less-rooted resident. On campus, we treated each other like longtime friends. I joined the Black Student Alliance, the NAACP, and the Program Council. I befriended many people who didn’t treat me differently because of my race.
For years, I wondered why, and I think it’s because so many SHSU students grew up in bigger cities. When I mentioned how insular Smallstown was, they seemed confused. By the time I graduated, I had learned a lot about myself. The lessons I learned and the people I met stay with me.
But then I moved back to Smallstown. Some strangers stopped me to ask if I was aware of what shirt I was wearing. (Yes, it featured my favorite heavy metal band.) And others still spoke to me as if I were a child. I was shocked to realize that my experiences as a Black woman in rural Texas wouldn’t change just because I had gained a bachelor’s degree.
I started working at a grocery store after college. The managers there never treated me differently due to my race—they treated me well because I was a hard worker. But some customers dealt with me differently because I was Black. The store had a small gas station, and I worked inside a little kiosk surrounded by fuel pumps. Every now and then, some white customers treated me as if I knew much less than the white co-workers I’d trained.
Compared to Huntsville, Smallstown has a big socioeconomic divide. Generations of white families in our town were able to buy homes and grow businesses while Black families were redlined and segregated and forced to attempt to break generational curses. But rich White people generally were less racist while poorer ones tended to belittle Black people. I found the nicest visitors to the grocery store were often ranchers and farmhands who drove in from the country.
I often wonder what would spark a change in the attitudes people have about Black people in small-town Texas. I hope that people like me, and the younger generations, will be able to inspire a much-needed change. Change comes from within and through open discussions. Frankly, I would have expected that racism would have faded already by 2025, but it hasn’t. People seem stuck in denial and defense mode whenever a Black person speaks about racism. You hear: “Oh, I can’t be racist because I have a Black friend,” or, my personal favorite, “There’s not a racist bone in my body.”
For real change to happen, people need to be ready to recognize things within themselves. I am hoping to open some eyes by sharing some of my experiences about being a Black woman in rural Texas.
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