Three policemen knocked on the door.

Her mother was the one who answered. The policemen immediately demanded to see her — they suspected she had been involved in a robbery next door.

Never mind the fact that there were no suspects. The robbers had been caught inside the house, and sophomore Kyanna McGee hadn’t even been home. And she wouldn’t be home until the next day, when her mother, practically shaking with anger, recounted the incident to her. But McGee wasn’t even surprised. Once, when she crossed her own driveway to check her own mailbox and then proceed to enter her own home, the accusing neighbor called her behavior “sketchy.” That neighbor has lived across the street from McGee for decades, yet she still refers to McGee as “the black girl with braids.”

And another time, McGee’s father parked his car outside her house, idling by the curb as he waited for her. They were going to celebrate her birthday together. But the neighbor across the street demanded that he move his car. That he park somewhere else.

But McGee wasn’t surprised at all. She was used to all of it: the scrutinization, the stereotypes, the suspicion.

To McGee, it’s called being black in Cupertino.

“There’s a black neighbor and someone got robbed, obviously those two situations link together,” McGee said sarcastically.

It’s been three months since the incident, but it still seems fresh. McGee was angry then, but now she’s resigned. Back when she went to school in San Jose and Tracy, people would occasionally make comments about her, but it was only when she moved to Cupertino that racism became more than just a passing remark.

When McGee first began attending Kennedy Middle School, she realized just how much she was losing and leaving behind: her diverse group of friends, her sense of connection. Suddenly, there was no one she felt she could relate to. This became all too clear when the first thing her new classmates mocked was her speech. They said she “talked ghetto,” and to justify their constant use of the word “ghetto,” they proudly recounted that one time they’d driven through Oakland.

McGee calls these remarks careless, a product of ignorance and a lack of diversity. And though McGee would always retort to these casual comments, it often only backfired.

“I’ve gotten the angry black girl or sassy black girl stereotype,” McGee said. More often than not, she was told to “just calm down.”

Though McGee hasn’t ever stopped retorting to insensitive comments, she’s been desensitized. It’s exhausting, and she’s had to accept the fact that she can’t educate everyone constantly. It’s a burden she never asked for.

“A lot of times I let it go. No matter what I say, it doesn’t really make a difference,” McGee said. “I try to stand up for myself and try to tell kids that it’s not right, but no one really cares.”

When she hears the n-word casually spoken in the cafeteria or the hallway or even from the mouths of her own friends, her confrontations never amount to anything. She’s constantly aware that she’s just one voice. Constantly aware that although she might stand out, her voice doesn’t. Especially because no one seems to be listening.

“I’ve caught a lot of my friends saying the n-word, which is not okay, even if you don’t say it in a racist manner,” McGee said. “They say ‘it’s just a word.’ ‘Words don’t mean anything.’” It really is just a word, but it was originally used as an oppressive word towards black people, and black people turned it around and made it a positive thing, a way of showing love. It doesn’t make sense for people who are the oppressor to be using a word that black people turned around.”

The response is usually “I don’t understand.” Though she believes that education from a young age could shift people’s attitudes, she’s never heard any of her teachers mention Black History Month. None of her classes have ever addressed it. The only time she’d heard it mentioned was when a boy sitting behind her thought it was funny that Black History Month took place during the shortest month of the year. It was a joke, nothing more.

And for sophomore Natasha Subbaraman, who is half African American, Black History Month seems nonexistent at MVHS; her own teachers never once acknowledged it.

“Maybe making Black History Month [more present on campus] would help, but only at a younger age,” McGee said. “For the most part, people are already set in their ways.”

Yet middle-school attitudes toward her race haven’t really changed. In many ways, it’s gotten worse. It’s become interrogative, with people asking her if, as a biracial person, she “felt more black or white,” or if “her dad was still around.” It never seemed to end.

“They don’t understand why it’s ignorant and offensive, and I don’t understand why they think it’s okay,” McGee said. “I wouldn’t change my race just because someone has a bad opinion of it. That’s their problem, not mine.”

According to McGee, being proud of her heritage, her race, has been a central part of Black History Month. Though she can’t talk to her peers about it, it’s still personal to her, still empowering. To her, Black History Month is a celebration of how much black people have accomplished. It’s also an acknowledgement of everything they still have to face.

“But [Black history taught in schools] is always about slavery,” said freshman Jade Tsao, who is biracial. “We learn that slavery was bad, and not to call people certain words. It never goes beyond that. It’s never good history we learn about, it’s bad history.”

It’s never good history we learn about, it’s bad history.

Though she understands the importance of the history of slavery and oppression, the problem is that history can be constricting: a way to reduce an entire people to a single-sentence summary. Not a celebration but an obligatory “that happened.” Tsao knows that students often fail to see black people’s accomplishments, their resilience and their progress.

And a limited education means a limited perspective, which is why Tsao believes that people can chuckle at the n-word but can’t hear its history. Can’t understand that the reclamation of the n-word by black youth has been a part of that long history of achievement and pride.

Like McGee, Tsao struggles with being one of only a few African American students. People still interrogate her about her race, telling her that “You’re not really black because you’re part Asian.”
Or they tell her it’s funny that she’s the only black kid in class, and all she can do is laugh it off.

But while people sling around the n-word and talk about black people as if they are foreign, they don’t want to talk about their own anti-black racism. When it comes to the horror of national broadcasts on police brutality and mass incarceration, Tsao notices only an overwhelming silence.

Even though she and McGee often feel alone, Tsao doesn’t feel entirely isolated from a sense of community. Though she sometimes wishes she could relate to more people, she’s proud of what makes her different. She’s not ashamed of anything.

“The black community is thriving, flourishing,” Tsao said. When she talks to her friend McGee, there’s a sense of support, of mutual understanding. McGee is someone she can talk to about police violence and how to react to students who use the n-word.

The saddest part, Tsao believes, is that she’s grown so used to hearing the n-word. The confusion and hurt of hearing it hasn’t worn off, but she’s used to it. Often, she feels like it’s useless to correct people: they simply don’t understand, or don’t want to.

“Because of all the anti-blackness everywhere, it’s hard for you to be proud of being black,” McGee said. Her pride is a victory, a radical act all on its own.

Because of all the anti-blackness everywhere, it’s hard for you to be proud of being black.

Still, she was lonely in her pride: she’s the only black person in her friend group, and the gap between the silent Cupertino community and the emerging national movement of Black Lives Matter seemed overwhelming.

“I educated myself [on social media],” McGee said. Through Twitter and Facebook and Instagram, she finds a path out of the “sheltered” environment of Cupertino. But as soon as she stepped onto campus and into a classroom, everything seemed to fade away. No one talked about anti-blackness or the importance of the Black Lives Matter movement. As if Cupertino was a walled-off entity all on its own, existing in some other version of reality. A space where blackness existed only in the context of jokes and stereotypes.

In the few times she’s heard Black Lives Matter even mentioned, it’s always been a question of whether it should even exist.

“With anti-black racism, you’re not going to understand it unless you go through it,” McGee said.

Even if she organized something in honor of Black History Month or Black Lives Matter, McGee doesn’t believe that it could ever truly be personal for non-black people. She appreciates it, but it isn’t the same as having the community of people she once had. The only upside is that she’s had to be more vocal than ever.

“I’ve become more educated, so I can stand up for myself properly,” McGee said. But she can’t address everything with words. There are teachers who seem to dislike her for no reason, and neighbors who treat her like a criminal in her own home. Even seeing her neighbor rouses her anger. For McGee, wariness has become a kind of default: when she sees her neighbor, she has to wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re assuming.

For Black History Month, McGee doesn’t particularly want a parade or an organized march or a celebration. It would be nice, sure, but she believes there’s something bigger that’s missing: basic respect.

“It would just be great if people just stopped being so ignorant,” she said.

Click below to check out the rest of our Black History Month coverage