Over the past few weeks, Americans in every corner of the country have seen their lives upended. What was once, naively, considered a far-off threat has caused school cancellations and layoffs. News of a looming economic recession, rising case counts, and a growing death toll have had become the focus of every media outlet. 

Though various groups have been impacted in a myriad of ways, one demographic has been particularly hard hit by the pandemic: African-Americans. African-Americans are less likely to have jobs that can work from home, and more likely than white Americans to have pre-existing medical conditions that can increase the severity of COVID-19.

In The New York Times article “Black Americans Face Alarming Rates of Coronavirus Infection in Some States,” reporters disclosed that in Chicago, African-Americans account for over half of positive COVID-19 tests, and almost three-fourths of fatalities. Yet, African-Americans make up only a third of the city’s population. Still, these alarming figures only represent cases where races have been recorded, and with the current strain on hospital resources, these numbers could be much higher. 

While the ongoing pandemic may have shined a spotlight on these issues, it is simply one part of a broader instance of racial inequality in the United States. 

Healthcare inequality is a product of many other factors, notably the wealth gap between black and white families in America. Brookings reported that the average net worth of a white family was nearly 10 times that of black families in 2016. The upward mobility of black Americans has been suppressed since the end of the Civil War, with redlining forcing black families into less desirable neighborhoods, with fewer opportunities. Though redlining was banned over 50 years ago, many suburbs, and cities, remain segregated today. If you’re living in a crowded household in an area where most of your peers don’t have healthcare, the disease spreads much faster.

As mentioned earlier, when it comes to the workforce, Black Americans disproportionately are working jobs that are now referred to as essential during the pandemic– such as bus drivers or grocery store cashiers. While some people, my family included, can wait out the pandemic as they work from home, these essential workers are interacting with potentially hundreds of people each day.

Many of these jobs traditionally don’t give healthcare benefits, leaving workers now on the front lines vulnerable. Communication issues could have also increased the amount of African-Americans who currently have COVID-19. As the New York Times states, “A lack of early communication about the threat of COVID-19 and confusing messages that followed left an information vacuum in some black communities that allowed false rumors to fester [about the coronavirus].”

The last two months have shown the ugly reality of many aspects of America, the broken healthcare system being the most prominent. What we can learn from this, though, is imminent need of reform. We need to advocate for free universal healthcare, paid sick leave, and higher minimum wages. Notice how over the course of one pandemic, workers who were told they didn’t need an increase in the minimum wage are now the most at risk, being far more exposed than the millions at home.

These disturbing facts and figures on how bad the outbreak is for African-Americans will hopefully spark a discussion about the repercussions of decades-long discrimination on black communities. It’s these conversations that will ultimately inspire people to continue (or begin) working towards tangible social change.

When you learn about the systematic inequalities we see in society, such as skin color discrimination, it almost feels like any actions done on your part would be negligible. This is merely how things have always been, what change could my possibly actions make? Well, there is always something that could be done, even if it only involves your friends or those within your family. With these 3 steps to combat colorism each day, you can know you’re making change, whether on a large scale or a smaller one.

1. Acknowledge what privilege you might have.

Privilege is a challenging conversation. When you possess it, it’s strange to notice the ways your life has indirectly been benefitting from the oppression of others. Still, it’s critical not only to notice it but think of how you can utilize it to support other people. This doesn’t imply that you should try to dominate the conversation, or steer it to a subject that affects your life more directly. Many times, acknowledging privilege simply involves listening to the struggles of people in your life, or outside of it, who have experienced this issue. 

2. Call colorism out if, and when, you see it.

In my opinion, this step is one of the most influential. Nothing stings more than to observe a friend pass over offensive jokes or judgments about darker-skinned people only because it isn’t insulting to them. This goes for different social inequalities as well. Admittedly, for a long time, I was the type to say nothing when I discerned something was offensive because confrontation can be awkward, or even intimidating. Now, I strive to get over that daunting feeling when speaking up for something I believe in because I recognize that it’s always the right thing to do. There is a significant distinction between inwardly knowing something is wrong and choosing to do nothing about it and outwardly taking the action to tell someone else not to continue their offensive actions. If no one is there to tell them what they said is wrong, people will continue their problematic behaviors. Don’t allow yourself to be uplifted at the expense of bringing other people down.

3. And finally, show your support for movies and TV shows that exhibit inclusive casting.

When I was growing up, and still today, the black women I always saw on television didn’t even mirror the diversity of skin tones I saw on women within my own family. If you were an outsider looking in at America, it could be easy to think that every black woman is light-skinned, because that’s the only black girl presented to the world. The representation we have now is indeed better than what our parents grew up with, but that doesn’t mean we should simply settle for diversity that isn’t genuinely representative of more people. With every new teen movie, writers and creators in Hollywood attempt to claim to be supporters of diversity, because they know it’s what teens advocate for. Not being accurately diverse is problematic, and in today’s “cancel culture” climate, people don’t want to risk negative press. Yet, only women who look like Yara Shahidi and Zendaya are cast in black female roles, and even then those roles are often tokenized or secondary to a white main character. Inclusive casting doesn’t signify solely casting Hollywood’s expectation of what a black girl should resemble, it also means progressing past that norm, displaying more variety of skin tones in media that depict the actual world we inhabit. When Black Panther came out, everyone showed out for the first blockbuster movie with an all-black cast. That made a statement, saying to those in Hollywood, this is what we want. Continuing to show that support, if you can, is an effective approach to work towards larger-scale changes in the society we live in. 

Have you ever been in a classroom, minding your business, and suddenly it feels like all eyes are on you? You look up to realize that the teacher is talking about slavery, or the civil rights movement, or maybe even black lives matter? Suddenly, being the only black student in the class holds more weight. Each time you speak, you can feel that your words are taken more seriously than that of your peers. 

The next thing you know, you practically feel like the teacher. 

Maybe even when a classmate has a question, you find yourself offering up a personal anecdote to support the topic your teacher is talking about. When someone says something ignorant, you feel a personal responsibility to check them because you’re the only one there to be offended. 

Yep, I’ve been in that situation more times than I can count. 

Being a minority in the classroom is hard enough, but it’s even harder when you feel that you just became the spokesperson for your entire ethnic group. This isn’t even an experience that’s necessarily unique to black students, but for many students of color. 

On one hand, I do believe there is a value from learning from other students. 

If I didn’t go to the school I go to now, I don’t think I would be as knowledgeable about a lot of world issues. My classmates have undeniably helped me advance my thinking beyond where it initially was. The same goes for diversity work, I actively try to participate in it when I can because I know how important it is, even though it’s difficult when I feel like my personal experiences are simply someone else’s learning material. Nevertheless, I’ve had so many good moments where I felt like I was able to educate a friend, or even a stranger, about a topic they didn’t know much about before. It feels even better to know that your peers care enough to ask and listen.

On the other hand, I can count the number of black teachers I’ve had on one hand. That shouldn’t be the case.

The experience of constantly being the only black person in any discussion-based class is tiring, and I don’t even know if I can do it for 4 more years in college. Not feeling seen in an academic setting isn’t an experience I would wish on anyone– because sometimes I don’t want to become the teacher, I just want to be a student like everyone else. The responsibility shouldn’t be mine to bring the much-needed diversity to a classroom and use my experience to constantly enrich the class for my white peers. Being there to teach others is important, but students of color deserve to simply learn as much as anyone else.

You know that feeling when you open Twitter and you see someone known as problematic trending #1? Then comes the inevitable sigh and all you can wonder is, “what now?” Yup, that’s how I felt a few days ago when Bhad Bhabie’s name was all over the timeline because she had been accused of blackfishing. She posted on Instagram to show off her new look, featuring skin noticeably darker than it was when she first became an internet sensation on Dr. Phil. It wasn’t necessarily surprising– what did we expect from the girl who got her first moments of clout by using AAVE? 

I knew what to be prepared for, but still, I was tired. The same argument, the same conversation. The same uproar, every single time it happens. No matter what the black community says to these people, they continue to make money off of a culture and a look that isn’t theirs. How are we still here, in 2020? 

It was 2018 when the term “blackfishing” first exploded on the internet– a play on the word catfishing. IG influencers were growing large followings of black users and being reposted by black beauty pages – despite being 100% white. Old Instagram posts exposed the influencers for having lighter skin tones and straight hair, posted side-by-side with how they presented themselves on the internet now. 

One influencer at the center of the controversy was Swedish teen Emma Halsberg, who now has over 400,000 Instagram followers, proving the scandal had little effect on the growth of her social media presence. If anything, it boosted it. Though Halsberg claimed she’d always identified as white, she had never bothered to correct all the Instagram users who had been led to believe she was a black woman. Her story seems to mirror that of all the others accused of blackfishing– create the buzz, increase the clout, and accept the profit. 

Soon, blackfishing was used to describe mainstream celebrities such as Kim Kardashian, who has been accused of cultural appropriation many times, and even Ariana Grande, whose tan has marked a difference in how she presented herself during the early years of her career. 

Similar to cultural appropriation, blackfishing represents an example of blackness being seen as a commodity, as something that can be used simply for clout. For years, black features were made fun of, pushing African-Americans to try to conform to Eurocentric beauty standards in any way they could. Now, it seems those features are finally accepted – darker skin, curly hair, fuller lips, curvy bodies – but only on white women. The new Instagram beauty standard may use the features of black women, but somehow black women are largely still left out. Celebrities have used black culture to profit for years, creating buzz each time they debut a new cornrow hairstyle or deep tan. It’s undeniable that it creates conversation, and eventually profit, but it’s time to discuss blackfishing for what it is – a modern-day form of blackface. 

The history of blackface is one rooted in oppression. As early as the 19th century, white people would don black faces and exaggerated lips and make mockeries out of real African-Americans. Minstrel shows also played into demeaning stereotypes about African Americans, notably the same ones that are still around today– uneducated, lazy, criminal. Black people, their supposed habits and lifestyles, were a source of entertainment, merely one-dimensional caricatures in a white world. 

And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like actual blackface has disappeared all together either. It feels like every week a new high school student, college student, politician, is being exposed by the “mistakes” of their past. The kids say, “I didn’t know it was wrong!” The politicians say, “It was a different time!” Which is precisely why blackface should be taught about in schools. It wasn’t acceptable then, and it isn’t acceptable now.

Blackfishing represents a reimagined manifestation of blackface, one perfect for the internet age, this time not for comedic intent but clout. Blackfishing has proved that appearing black, or at least racially ambiguous, is the new way to make a statement on the internet. As the common saying goes, everybody wants to be black until it’s time to be black.