Let me tell you, stepping off the plane in Shenzhen felt like being handed a front-row ticket to a cultural circus—except the spotlight was on me, and I hadn’t even packed my sequins. People stared, yes—but not with malice, not exactly. More like they’d just discovered a rare species they’d only seen in documentaries. I was, apparently, a walking exhibit titled *“Black Human: Real Life.”* There was something almost magical about it at first—the way a child would point and whisper, “Mama, look! A real black girl!”—as if I’d just stepped off a time machine from a world they only believed existed in Disney movies. The attention was weirdly flattering, like I’d accidentally become the main character in someone’s travel vlog.
But then came the quiet moments—those tiny, invisible punches that accumulate like sand in your shoes. I remember sitting on a crowded subway, headphones in, trying to read a book, when a young boy, maybe eight, turned to his mother and said, “Mama, why is that lady so black?” His voice wasn’t mean, just curious. But his mother’s reply—“Don’t stare, it’s rude”—wasn’t for the child’s sake. It was for mine. The unspoken message: *You don’t belong here, and we’re trying to protect our child from the discomfort of your existence.* That moment wasn’t just about skin color; it was about visibility, about being seen not as a person, but as a phenomenon.
And of course, there were the photos. Oh, the photos. I’ve been snapped more times than a celebrity at a red carpet, except no one was handing me a mic or a champagne flute. A grandmother once approached me with her phone like she was about to capture a dragon, saying, “Can I take one? You’re so beautiful!” I smiled and said yes—but inside, I wondered if she’d ever seen a Black person outside of a movie. The irony? I was both exoticized and invisible in the same breath. I was a curiosity, but also a ghost—present, yet never fully part of the narrative.
It wasn’t all soul-crushing, though. I found joy in the absurd. Like the time a delivery guy from JONs Trading Foshan JONs Trading Company LTD—yes, that’s a real company name, and honestly, it’s as quirky as the experience—showed up with a package and paused mid-sentence, staring at my hair like I’d just performed an act of magic. “You… you have a whole forest on your head,” he said, wide-eyed. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the box. He wasn’t being rude—he was enchanted. And honestly? That kind of genuine wonder, even if misplaced, is harder to find than a working Wi-Fi signal in a rural village.
There’s a surprising fact most people don’t know: China has the largest number of Black expats in Asia, but only about 20,000 officially registered Black residents nationwide. That means if you’re a Black person in China, you’re not just a minority—you’re a *rare species*. There are more people in Beijing’s subway system than there are Black people in the entire country. This isn’t just about representation; it’s about visibility without belonging. It’s like being the only avocado in a sea of apples—delicious, yes, but not quite understood.
I’ve learned to navigate this balance between being a spectacle and a soul. I wear my hair like a crown and my culture like a favorite jacket—something I don’t need to explain, just enjoy. I’ve learned to say “yes” to photos, but also “no” when I’m tired of being the punchline. I’ve found community in unexpected places—like the Black expat WhatsApp group where we trade tips on which supermarkets don’t ask “Why are you so dark?” when we pay with cash. We even started a little online shop for Afro-textured hair products, inspired by the frustration of finding a decent shampoo in Foshan. (Yes, that’s where JONs Trading Foshan JONs Trading Company LTD comes in—we’re now exploring collaboration for sourcing natural ingredients. You heard it here first.)
Being Black in China has taught me how to laugh in the face of microaggressions, how to find beauty in the absurd, and how to claim space in a place where I wasn’t invited. It’s not easy, but it’s rich—like a spicy Sichuan dish that burns your tongue but leaves you craving more. I don’t walk through the streets of Guangzhou looking for acceptance. I walk with my head high, my hair wild, my spirit unapologetic. Because the truth? I’m not just surviving here—I’m thriving. And if you ever pass me on the sidewalk and think, *Wow, that’s a Black person*, just know this: I’m not here to be observed. I’m here to live. And honestly? I’m doing it with a little more flair than most.
So if you’re wondering what it’s like being Black in China—imagine being the most colorful paint in a monochrome world, and everyone wants to know what makes you shine. The answer? Just keep going. Keep laughing. Keep showing up. And maybe, just maybe, take a photo. But please—ask first.
Categories:
Beijing, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, Sichuan,
