Content warning: There is one non-specific reference to sexual assault and disordered eating

For those of us who grew up in mostly white neighborhoods, attending mostly white schools, and hanging out with mostly white friends as the ‘token’ Black, Indigenous or Person of Color (BIPOC), sometimes it’s hard to admit that being ‘the only one’ is our comfort zone—especially if we’ve never really known anything else. Or we may have our own reasons for actively or passively avoiding other People of Color. Let’s unpack some of those. Many of us are carrying a lot of trauma or just beginning to examine the “unexamined truths” that shape how we’ve lived our lives, including internalized racism. So, even now as twenty- or thirty-somethings, why do we hesitate to make friends with other People of Color? Here are five reasons why (Hint: it’s not you, it’s us!)

1. We were teased for talking white

We were teased a lot for ‘talking white’ or told we weren’t really Latinx or Asian enough because we didn’t speak our heritage language fluently. Now as adults, we understand that our family made difficult decisions that they thought would give us the best chance of success, so we grew up in English-only households. Or maybe we were drilled on ‘proper English’ because our family feared that speaking African American Vernacular English (AAVE) would limit our opportunities later in life. Our parents named us Jessica and Chad and hoped that proximity to whiteness would pay dividends in the form of happy successful children with good jobs, a good education and good partners. Only, their dreams had unintended consequences.

We grew up not being able to talk to our grandparents, we felt alienated and adrift instead of loved and supported. Or maybe we dreaded the moment when our parents would pass the phone to us, turning what should have been treasured moments with our Lola into a test of our limited Bisaya. It made us feel not whole. ‘Talking white’ or not speaking our heritage language was not a choice we made. It was a choice our parents made for us or a choice their parents made for them. So why were we being punished for someone else’s choices? And even though we now realize, as adults, that ‘sounding white’ made us more hireable, more marketable—a better cultural fit in society’s eyes, that doesn’t erase the hurt we felt. Being bullied was a painful experience and, decades later, those memories make it difficult for us to connect with other people who look like us. It may not be the politically correct answer, but it’s how we feel.

2. We got used to being the only non-white friend

Growing up in predominantly white schools and communities gave us an advantage in life however it constantly left us as the only non-white person in the friend group. Then we got used to being ‘the only one.’ Over time, this proximity to whiteness shaped our relationship with our own skin, it shaped our self esteem, and defined who we were attracted to and who we weren’t—difficult and “unexamined truths” that we refuse to unpack to this day. We grew up feeling estranged from our own culture, food, music, language and traditions. We grew up being tokenized by our tight-knit circle of white friends to the point where we just got used to the micro-aggressions: “hey, where are you from?”, “is that your real hair?”, “no, where are you really from?”, “wow your English is so good!”, “you don’t look Native!”, “aren’t all Asians supposed to be smart?”, or “don’t worry, I think he likes Asian guys.”

We grew up watching the same films, listening to the same music, having crushes on the same bands as our white friends. To this day, we don’t feel any different from them. Meanwhile, even trading glances with someone who shares our skin color at the trailhead or climbing gym can feel unfamiliar or scary. All of the insecurities and fear of rejection we felt in childhood rises to the surface and that’s not a path we’re ready to go down—even though they may be just like us: transracial adoptees with white adoptive parents, middle-class Black kids who attended all white prep schools, Sikhs who grew up skiing at Mammoth, etc. There’s so much to unpack and we’re just not ready. So we keep our friend groups white and shut down the attempts of other BIPOC to reach out to us.

3. Our childhood included traumatic experiences or unhealthy cultural practices

This isn’t a theoretical issue, this is our real life and we just don’t want to deal with it. And if that means distancing ourselves from family members, so be it. It just so happens, that our mind doesn’t always distinguish between people who have hurt us and people who resemble people who have hurt us. So we stay away. We put up walls. We feel safer being ‘the only one.’

I recently had a good crying jag after an argument with my African American mother. I was trying to set a boundary about the way she, with good intention, constantly gets on me about my weight and appearance. Mid-fight I burst into tears at the thought that maybe my grandma—who raised ten children—possibly spoke to my mother in the same way, repeating a pattern that perhaps she had learned from my great-grandmother. In the moment, it reminded me of that quote from the Academy Award Best Picture-winning film Parasite, “She’s nice because she’s rich. Hell, if I had all this money. I’d be nice, too!”

I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. I do know that I’m pretty sensitive as Black women come, and sometimes that has prompted me to avoid other Black people in social settings—especially when I was younger. Like most Black kids born in the 1980s, my siblings and I were raised to be tough, direct and to have thick skin. I have never been any of those things. As a result, I was teased for being sensitive and, especially when I was younger, I hated family gatherings where people I was distantly related to commented on my weight gain, breasts, butt, etc. I came to associate that with being Black and for the longest time I wanted to escape it. I preferred to be around people who didn’t just expect me to ‘get over it’ and who didn’t justify adults making unsolicited comments on an adolescent’s physical appearance.

I’m about to turn 35, and I now know that there are sensitive people in every race and ethnicity—including many of my Black aunties and uncles who are quiet and gentle and kind. I feel like I learned this far too late in life. I wish we had had the opportunity to connect when I was younger and desperately needed to feel like I was enough—like I didn’t need to change my entire self to belong.

4. Our cultural community doesn’t make space for our queerness or disability

Sometimes, we find it painful to be around other BIPOC because we aren’t just Asian American, we are Vietnamese, disabled and queer, and our cultural community doesn’t always make space for our multiple hyphenated identities. So we spend time with Vietnamese relatives, but we find ourselves seeking out mostly white queer and mostly white disabled spaces, while imagining what it would feel like to connect with other queer disabled Asian Americans. So, yes, we stay away sometimes, but it’s not like we have a choice. Our identities aren’t something you can slice up. Our identities are intertwined and inseparable, regardless of what society thinks. And it is impossible to exist for long in a community that doesn’t make room for both identities. So why in 2021, are there still BIPOC aunties telling kids that “disordered eating is for white kids,’ or that “salah—not medication will cure your mental illness.” There is a reason and it’s long and complicated and full of hurt. The solution isn’t to permanently distance yourself from other brown people, however, sometimes that happens anyways—a temporary solution made permanent by layers of pain, or fear of rejection, or a desire to break harmful intergenerational cycles.

5. We grew accustomed to being ‘the only one’

You may feel uncomfortable being around other people who look like you. This discomfort isn’t something you were born with, it’s something that grew over a longer period of being ‘the only one.’ This may be especially true, if you spend a lot of time engaged in activities that your cultural or ethnic community doesn’t have access to or doesn’t want access to, like backcountry hiking, snowboarding, elective poverty (#vanlife), skydiving or anime. Even if it feels like you’ll never meet another Filipinx hiker who loves the White Mountains and My Hero Academia as much as you do—deep breath here folks, you are not the only one! That’s good news! It could also be scary news. Should you say hello if you see another Latinx hiker on the trail? Yes! If you happen upon a fellow visibly-disabled Black hiker at your local gear store, should you strike up a conversation from six-feet away? Why the hell not?

Reaching out instead of waiting for someone to reach out to you is one way to build community, even if it feels scary, even if you fear being rejected all over again. Instead of assuming the worst, consider that they may have similar fears. If they don’t like you, well that doesn’t feel great, but you’ll move on. Making friends as an adult is tough! But what if you hit it off? You could even bond over the shared experiences of disappointing your parents by “sleeping on the ground” or putting your pre-law degree to waste as an outdoor educator and guide. Sarcasm aside, you don’t have to feel like you’re the only one—unless you want to. These days, there are online communities for almost every type of indoor or outdoor activity, so even if you don’t know any other Black snowboarders in your city, you can probably find them on Instagram, or TikTok, or Clubhouse, or Reddit! The options aren’t endless, but there are definitely options…when you’re ready.

Unlearning the harmful racist narratives we internalized as children is not easy - especially if you grew up as the only BIPOC kid in the neighborhood. It may be challenging but it’s definitely worth doing the work. Good luck on your journey and here’s to making other outdoorsy friends of color along the way. Do you have any tips or strategies that have helped you unlearn ‘being the only one’? Let us know in the comments!