The year was 2013. I was new to New York, and wanted my first summer there to be one for the books. Despite the pride I often took in “no days off”, I left my dorm in Manhattan to attend Afropunk in Brooklyn.

Before the corporate sponsorships, heavy celeb sightings, and a saturated Commodore Barry Park, the festival was a safe (free!) place for Black alternative folks to just be. For the first time, I was surrounded by Black people into the same “white people shit” I was.

I saw an array of outfits and hairstyles that were ahead of their time. I approached a Black girl with a large sign reading “Black lesbians! Come talk to me!” A band played rhythmic, infectious beats as Boots Riley glided across the stage. I embraced the full spectrum of the music I liked, including the bands that were allegedly just for the melanin deficient.

Long after it ended, I went to the concerts I once avoided in hopes of fitting in. Like those at Afropunk, I wanted to be unapologetic in my “eclectic” taste. But most crowds aren’t as Black and welcoming as the one from that summer. As the saying goes, “you can’t self love your way out of systemic oppression”. Trying to enjoy myself despite what others thought didn’t stop those same people from trying to dim my light.