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Padlet Discussion: Ubuntu, Afrocentricity and Nguzo Saba

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Padlet Discussion: Ubuntu, Afrocentricity and Nguzo Saba

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identify and explain the major theoretical perspectives of African American psychology.

compare and contrast theoretical perspectives on African American psychology.

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Theme 3: Positive Sense of Self Brainstorm 

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Theme 3: Positive Sense of Self Brainstorm 

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“Thank you for creating this assignment. It has profoundly shifted my confidence in my racial identity. I no longer feel inadequate when I’m unfamiliar with slang associated with my race, nor do I feel the need to dilute who I am to fit in. I’ve come to realize that authenticity, not conformity, defines my identity.”

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I have two distinct memories that shaped my early understanding of race. The first one involved a family member and occurred when I was around eight or nine years old. My parents had separated by the time I was two, so I never remembered them together. Growing up, my reality always included "Elvie," my stepmother. From the beginning, she treated me like I was her own, showing me unconditional love and care. Yet, one comment she made stuck with me, not because it reflected her love, but because it subtly shaped my perception of race and identity.

One day, in the middle of an ordinary conversation, Elvie said, "Your daddy don’t like Black women no more." She was trying to explain why her relationship with my dad worked—because she was Filipino, unlike his previous partners, who were Black. My dad was always friendly and sociable, so it was true that he had dated a fair number of women before settling down again. But hearing that statement as a young Black girl made me question things I hadn’t yet fully understood.

At the time, I didn’t know how to process the weight of those words. It wasn't just about my dad's preferences; it felt like an indirect commentary on my own identity. If my father no longer found Black women desirable, what did that mean for me—his Black daughter? Did that affect how he saw me, how he loved me? These were complex questions for a child to navigate, but they quietly took root in my mind.

Looking back, I can see how this moment hindered the growth of my racial identity. It planted seeds of doubt about my worth, not just as a person, but specifically as a Black girl. As I grew older, I found myself attracting Black men who often preferred to date outside their race—a pattern I didn’t recognize as significant until much later. In some ways, I think I unconsciously gravitated toward the familiar dynamic I had witnessed in my own family.

While my stepmother's words were likely not meant to harm, they highlighted the subtle, complex ways that racial identity can be shaped—not just by overt racism, but by the quiet, casual comments made by those we love and trust. It took years for me to untangle those early impressions and understand that my worth isn’t defined by someone else’s preferences. My identity, like everyone else's, deserves to be embraced fully and without conditions.

The second experience came from school, where I was given the nickname “Kunta Kendra,” like "Kunta Kinte" from Roots. At the time, I was excited to have a nickname. I didn’t realize it was meant as an insult. It’s only when I look back that I see how significant representation is. Who knows what those kids were taught? Reflecting on the media landscape during that time, there was a noticeable lack of positive Black representation. Without diverse portrayals, it was easier for children to internalize stereotypes and repeat them, often without fully understanding the harm they caused.

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“I’m a who I wasn’t ready to be 23 years ago.”

Looking at my life now, there’s so much I never could have predicted—especially when it comes to how I navigate the world as a woman of color. I often find myself pretending to be agreeable, smiling, and not standing out, not because I don’t have an opinion or the power to take up space, but because it’s exhausting to constantly challenge the assumptions that others make about me. There’s a certain expectation that I have to fit a mold, to be palatable, to avoid being seen as too much of anything. I sometimes wish I could project the appearance of power—confidence, authority, and respect—without my race or gender being the reason behind it. I wish I didn’t have to constantly explain or justify myself in a world that too often sees me through a narrow lens.

People see me as the happy, bubbly person who loves to dress up as a unicorn and be the center of attention. It’s fun, and I enjoy making others laugh, but there’s a part of me that wonders if people only see the surface and miss the complexity underneath. I dress up as a unicorn because I love the joy and whimsy it brings, but it’s also a shield—a way to stand out without making others feel uncomfortable. It’s a persona I’ve adopted that allows me to be seen but not necessarily understood. But the truth is, the unicorn isn’t all of me. I am often the person I wanted to be when I was younger—the one who could exist as all of the things I am, without apology or explanation.

Race has been woven into the fabric of my life in ways I can’t ignore. Growing up a minority was hard—there’s no doubt about that. But my parents’ socio-economic freedom isolated me from my race in some ways. I wasn’t fully immersed in the struggles that many others in my community faced, yet I couldn’t escape the realities of being Black in a world that constantly tried to define me by my skin color. I was often called an “Oreo,” and I found myself switching back and forth—one moment, I was the “token” Black person, and the next, I was playing up a hyperbolic version of what I thought people expected a “Black person” to be. I didn’t always know where I fit in or how to show up as my true self.

The truth is, I’m 2,324,663 things all at once. I’m the product of my race, my upbringing, my experiences, and my choices. I’m multifaceted and complex, but too often, people want to simplify who I am into one label or category. But I refuse to be confined to that. The different parts of me—my race, my gender, my personality, my dreams—don’t fit into a neat little box. I am constantly evolving, constantly learning, and constantly pushing back against the world’s narrow definitions of who I should be.

When I look back at the person I was 23 years ago, I realize that I wasn’t ready for any of this—not ready to grapple with my identity in such an open, honest, and sometimes painful way. But now, as I reflect on all of my experiences—my joys, my struggles, my successes, and my setbacks—I see a woman who has come to understand that it’s okay to be a little bit of everything. And that’s exactly who I am meant to be.