Black in Bend: being an extreme minority in suburbia | Anyssa Bohanan | TEDxBend

Have you ever been the only one who looks like you in a room? Anyssa Bohanan has experienced the feeling on an extreme level, first living as one of the only African Americans in South Korea, and then as one of very few in Central Oregon. Her experiences being an extreme minority both at home and abroad range from amusing to life changing. She hopes that by sharing those experiences she can make the difference for at least one other person feeling the same way.

Local news reporter, Anyssa Bohanan, is a self-proclaimed “Future Oprah.” In fact, she’s been interviewing her teddy bears since she was a toddler and attributes the fact that she can talk to anyone, anywhere, to growing up as an Army Brat. A two-year stint teaching English in South Korea taught Bohanan the true importance of escaping your comfort zone. From navigating the streets of a whole new country, to a journey of self-discovery in unfamiliar territory right here at home, she’s learning that being different doesn’t have to be a bad thing, no matter where you are.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

Hi, guys.

(Audience) Hi.

Hi, Oprah, if you're watching.
This is my only time for a shout-out.

But back to you guys ...

So, here in the audience,
I know there are some parents, right?

Out of those of you who have kids,

how many of you have had
"the talk" with them?

Right? Right?

It's weird, right? And it's awkward.

And I can guarantee you,

as someone who was once a child
who received this talk,

it is just as awkward for us,
if not more so, than you.

So I got that talk
when I was about eight or nine,

and it was weird, guaranteed.

But when I was about 9 or 10 -

that's me -

I had an entirely different talk
with my parents.

And I'm not really sure how they decided
that this was the day to have this talk,

but one Sunday afternoon,

my dad said, "I have
something to show you,

and afterwards,
we're going to talk about it."

And then, he cued up
a History Channel documentary,

and he said, "I don't want
to hurt your feelings,

and I know that this might scare you,

but it's very important for you to hear."

So he cues up this
History Channel documentary,

and the first images that I see
are a very worked-up group of KKK members,

and then shortly after that,
black men hanging from a tree.

Now,

he didn't make me watch the whole thing,
because I was a very sensitive child.

But this talk that I had with my dad

is one that many black children in America
have to have at least once in their lives,

about the discrimination and racism
that they are likely to face at some point

because they are black.

And my dad said,
"I don't mean to scare you,

but I just want you to know that someday,

someone might want to hurt you
or even kill you because of who you are."

And I remember going
to my bedroom afterwards

and laying on the bed

and staring at the ceiling and saying,

"Why do they hate us?"

Imagine that little girl wondering
why people didn't like her already,

because of who she was.

Now, despite the severity of the talk,

when I went back to school on Monday,

I was pretty resilient,
as most children are,

and I mentioned it to my friends,

and I realized that
they were uncomfortable.

And I didn't realize until later

that is was because some of my friends

had not to have this particular kind
of talk with their parents

about somehow confronting someone

who would one day
think that they were beneath them

or want to hurt them
because of who they were.

And after several other incidences
that were similar,

I just realized that
there were some groups

with whom I would not
be able to discuss race.

And so, in groups

where even the differences between us
were glaringly obvious,

I would avoid the topic

because I didn't want to make
other people uncomfortable.

Fast-forward a few years
from elementary school.

After I graduated from college,

I decided to use my journalism degree
and teach English in South Korea.

It was an amazing experience,

in part due to the fantastic people
that I met, from all corners of the world.

But moving across the world,
let me tell you,

can come with just a few challenges,

as I'm sure you're aware.

How many of you have ever been
the only one in a room,

the only one of your race,
of your gender, of your sexuality?

How does it feel?

Some people are like,
"Yeah ... it's fine. I felt alright."

For some people, it makes you feel
incredibly vulnerable.

Now, imagine that feeling of discomfort
combined with your dad's far-echoing words

of someone maybe not liking you
simply because of who you are,

and take that feeling times a thousand

because you're the only one that looks
like you pretty much in the whole country.

(Laughter)

Oh, goodness.

It was a fun time though, honestly.

But I did feel like I was
under a microscope at all times.

I mean, I had some of the most
interesting experiences.

Like, I was going up the escalator
one day in e-mart,

and a man leaned so far over the railing
to get a closer look at me

I thought we were going to make out.

I thought that that was it,
I had a new husband, you know.

And some of my students would
call me things like "Africa teacher,"

or "Jamaica teacher,"

which was easy enough to correct.

They just simply didn't know.

One time, I got into the taxi cab,

and the taxi driver was just as shocked
to see me as pretty much anyone,

and after a frantic conversation
in rapid-fire Korean,

he was asking to take my hand.

I thought, "In marriage?
What's going on here?"

But it turned out that he just wanted
to try to rub the brown off of it.

(Laughter)

Yeah! Yeah, that happened! It was real.

Now, that incident was
more amusing than anything,

and these experiences that I had
were more, you know, misunderstandings.

It wasn't like they were purposefully
trying to hurt me at all.

Which was fine.

But there were other incidences
where the whole purpose was to hurt me.

So, I go down to Ulsan one weekend
to visit a couple of my friends.

Ulsan is this beautiful city
on the southern coast of South Korea,

and they're far more used
to seeing foreigners and tourists.

So I was really
looking forward to a weekend

where fewer people stared at me, at least.

And my friends and I,
we go out and we have a great time,

and we end the day
in one of our favorite bars,

and all of a sudden, mid-conversation,

my friend to the left of me freezes
like she has seen a ghost,

like someone has walked over her grave.

And she turns to the three
Korean men sitting next to her

and starts yelling at them!

"What? What is going on?"

So, of course my friend and I
are concerned.

Maybe they've said
something inappropriate to her.

I'm kind of ready
to throw down a little bit.

I mean, I'm small but mighty!
Like, I'm ready to go!

(Laughter)

And instead,

she turns to me and she says,
with tears in her eyes,

"They just called you a 'dumb nigger.'"

Yikes.

My other friend's reaction turns visceral.

Now she's yelling at them,
now the bartenders are involved.

The guys are frantically
trying to explain,

but it's just because they've been caught.

My friend who originally heard it
has run to the bathroom, crying,

because she's so angry.

But you know what?

In all of the chaos,
once I realized that that was the issue,

I got very calm

because this is exactly what I had been
fearing since I was 10 years old,

watching a documentary

about the fact that someone might say
exactly what this man had just said to me,

and I survived!

I always thought
that such a blatant racist event

would feel like a knife through my chest.

And instead, it felt
more like a paper cut -

quick sting,

little scar,

a reminder that this was not the worst
that I would ever hear,

but that I would survive.

Now, not every part of my life
in South Korea was this dramatic.

I'm just telling you guys
the craziest parts.

Honestly, it was the greatest
experience ever.

It really made me a stronger,
more confident and resilient person.

And that newfound confidence

is probably why three months
after I moved back home

and I got offered the job here in Bend,

I lapped at the opportunity.

It sounded like my dream job
to be a storyteller,

and not just a news reporter.

And when I talked
to my now boss on the phone,

he informed me that Bend
was not very diverse ...

(Laughter)

And by "not very diverse,"

he meant that there were
a lot of white people!

(Laughter)

Which was fine!

I said, "Well, you know, I moved
to an entirely different country."

What was moving
to an entirely different state?

The difference, ladies and gentlemen,
is that, by moving to South Korea,

I had other people around me who
recognized that feeling of outsiderness,

of feeling like a foreigner.

And here in Bend, I didn't
really have that relatability,

and I was experiencing
all of this in the public eye.

You see, journalists are not
really allowed to have a public opinion.

We are unbiased figures of the community,

something that I've struggled with
on certain topics,

but, for the most part, I understand,

because this is all
that I ever wanted to do,

and it's part of the job.

But being the only one who looks like me
on TV can pose unique challenges,

and I find myself putting myself
into two categories quite often:

Anyssa the journalist
and Anyssa the black chick.

Now, these two categories clashed
for the first time last summer,

the same week that Philando Castile
and Alton Stirling, two black men,

were shot and killed
in two separate states,

the same week that five police officers
were shot and killed in Dallas

in response to those shootings.

It was a tough week to be an American,

and it was certainly
a tough week to be in news.

But the morning that I woke up,

two days after Alton Stirling
had been shot,

to see the fairly graphic video
of Philando Castile dying in his car,

I felt more exhausted than anything.

And I watched a few minutes of the video
and got ready for work,

hopped in the car,

got ready to drive out,

and I got about 10 feet
down the road, if that,

before I burst into tears.

And it's still very hard for me
to talk about without getting emotional,

because these men are people
that I could have known.

They could have been friends, family,
co-workers that I'd had in the past.

And when I got to work
and no one was talking about it,

I've never felt so alone.

I felt like it didn't matter,
what had happened to these men.

I felt like I didn't matter,

and no one even noticed.

So after our morning meeting,

I asked our producer
why we weren't covering the shootings,

and he said that we needed
to find a way to localize it.

Fair enough.

So he suggested that we do
man-on-the-street interviews,

and I wasn't that excited about it,
but I figured, "Alright, here we go."

So my videographer and I go downtown,

and not many people
were willing to talk about it.

You know, unpleasantness
just doesn't belong

on a sunny summer day in Bend.

But we did get a couple
who gave us a very modest opinion,

and I was feeling pretty good about myself

because I didn't think
we were going to get anything.

So we were just talking about
packing it in and getting ready to go,

when a man rolled up on his bike:

white man, mid-40s or so, very Bendite,

and he asked what we were doing.

So, we told him:

we were getting opinions
on the shootings that had happened.

And he said, "I have opinions,
but I don't want to say them on camera."

And we repeatedly asked him,
"Are you sure? Are you sure?"

Because, you know,
he wasn't going anywhere.

He definitely wanted to share his opinion.

And before we could get him convinced

that maybe he should just tell us
while the camera was rolling,

he launches into this long opinion
about everyone from Muslims to immigrants,

and then he tops it off by saying,

"I hate to say this,
because you're black ..."

Let's just stop right there
for a little mini lesson:

no good sentence ever ...

(Laughter)

starts with "I hate to be racist, but ..."

(Laughter)

So, he says,

"I hate to say this, because you're black,

but you guys are just built,
stronger and faster,

and sometimes police
have no choice but to shoot,

because they're afraid."

(Audience) Aww ...

"And black people
are more violent, statistically.

You can look it up."

I go completely numb.

I cannot believe
he has just said this to me.

And he said this to me on a sunny day,
in the middle of downtown Bend,

as placidly as if he was telling me
the sky was blue.

That was a knife.

So,

now that you guys have heard that,

a few weeks ago, we aired a story
about me telling this exact same story,

and the backlash and comments
were startling.

A lot of people were upset

over the fact that "I had made
everyone in Bend look racist"

and said that they would never
watch our show again.

Others suggested
that if I wanted diversity,

I should just move!

And then, of course, there's the infamous
"five black people in Bend" comment.

If there's anything I could take back,

it would be that.

I've just recently said
that there were five of us in Bend,

and people countered with,

"I know at least 12
black people here in Bend."

(Laughter)

"13, even!"

(Laughter)

And to them I say,
"I think you missed the point,"

and also kind of made mine.

Because it doesn't matter
that you know 12 black people,

or 13 or 25 black people in Bend.

The fact that you can count us at all
in a city of literally thousands

should give you pause.

I wasn't looking to give
a Census Bureau count

or call everyone in the area racist.

My point remains

that we've got to find a way
to comfortably talk about race.

As soon as I mentioned it,
it was attack mode, defensive.

See, so often, people want to shy away
from the fact that I'm black.

My least favorite phrase
is "I don't see color."

And I get that you mean
that you see us as equals,

but why can't you see me
as your equal and black?

I would never say,
"I don't see you as white."

(Laughter)

(Applause)

See, you should acknowledge that I'm black
because I'm okay with it.

I want you to know
that I am a professional woman

and I am black.

And I also want you to know

that even though there may be
more than five of us,

sometimes I feel like the only one
in a sea of literally thousands,

and that can be a real
challenge, and exhausting,

on days when I'm already
not having the greatest time.

I want you to know
that living here in Bend

can be just as amazing
as it was living in South Korea,

but it's also scary
when I'm walking down the street

and I wonder who is walking past me

that's thinking the exact same thing
that that man once said to me.

I don't want to leave you
with oversimplified generalizations

like "all black people feel victimized,"
or "all white people are racist."

But in a community like Bend,
where the majority is white,

I want to know: How can we learn together?

How can we hope to create
a better community

if we never see each other's differences,
but only our sameness?

If we take on each other's differences
and see each other more fully,

think about how much better we can make
not just Bend, but the world.

Thank you.

(Applause) (Cheering)