Like most college students who don’t have a lot going on, I have very vivid memories of my days in middle school. From unironically listening to “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance on the bus to set my mood (I really, really hated middle school) to putting way too much effort into projects that really did not matter that much. I can’t remember one moment where I wasn’t a total try hard both socially and academically, but what sticks out to me the most is how hard I tried to make friends. Coming from the land of suburbia, I was familiar with being the only Black person anywhere. I was excited to break that pattern when I realized there were more Black people at my middle school than the number of fingers on my hands. However, I remember immediately being told by my peers that I was an Oreo (a term for a Black person who “acts white” or has a white parent) if Black at all, on my first day of school because of the interests that I had. Apparently liking anime, nightcore music and math made me “not Black enough.” It was the first day I heard that phrase, and it was something that I’d continue to hear about myself from then on.
Growing up a nerd is already rough enough. Pranked by people pretending to have a crush on me, excluded in sports regardless of my skill level, being picked on for my interests: It’s the poindexter’s rite of passage as old as time itself. However, when combined with growing up Black, it felt like a double feature of social exclusion. Somehow, I had to balance my desire to fit in with my peers, while acknowledging that being called white for things like my music taste and liking algebra was incredibly stupid. Even now, my habits of profiling myself persist. Sometimes I sit down to drink tea while watering plants or I complain about niche academic topics with my friends and find myself wondering if I could possibly be more white. But that got me to think to myself: How bullshit is it that I can’t enjoy things in life without associating those enjoyments with being another race entirely. Since when did being comfortable, content and dorky become equated to “being white,” and why? That alone got me thinking about the experience of being a Black nerd in the U.S., and so as anyone with enough free time would do, I turned to the internet.
The word “blerd” is a relatively recent one, as it was coined in the late 1990s and became more popular around 2006. It is a portmanteau of the words “Black” and “nerd”, made to describe the experience of Black-nerdom. The word eventually generalized to mean the experience of growing up as a Black person who has nerdy interests. The first signs of popularity began with Steve Urkel, an obnoxious and nerdy character on the all-Black show “Family Matters,” with an archetype for Black people not often seen on television. Though the show was clearly ridiculing Steve for the sheer amount of nerdom bleeding off of him, he was a lovable and well-appreciated character nonetheless. With every invention and “Did I do that?,” Steve Urkel made his way into the hearts of viewers everywhere; and more importantly, he validated the feelings of Black nerds just like him everywhere. From then on, more and more Black nerds would make their way into front-running shows, from sitcoms like “Scrubs” to cartoons like “Kim Possible,” “Fairly OddParents” and “Danny Phantom” having Black nerds as secondary characters (and often, the main source of Black representation in 2000s shows as a sort of countertrope). The growing presence of people who were Black and nerdy made it more normalized for Black people to behave in a manner outside the assigned stereotype. As time moves forward, we continue to see more developed Black nerd characters like Miles Morales in the “Spider-Verse” trilogy and Chidi Anagonye in “The Good Place.” The representation of people outside a socially assigned box helps them feel more seen, but sometimes, I can’t help but question why that box exists in the first place.
Black Americans are not inherently anti-intellectual. In fact, Black Americans are just as academically driven as other racial groups in the United States. But if that is the case, why do people use white vernacular as a method of being able to tell when a Black person is well-read or “clean,” and why is there an overwhelming message within Black America that academia is something for white people to reside in and for Black people to visit? The most obvious reason for this is the lasting effects of segregation and, thus, public opinion on Black Americans. Message after message is sent to the average Black child that they don’t belong in an academic setting or in geek culture, from blackface characters being present in the most innocent of nerdy media to low rates of acceptance to the top universities in the nation, including the University of Michigan.
Even in the media we enjoy, as a Black nerd, I find it difficult to feel like I belong in certain subcultures — it gets to the point where even outgroups are exclusive, specifically to people of color, and especially Black people. It is not uncommon for Black cosplayers to be harassed for daring to dress up as “white characters” from anime. It is important to note that this wouldn’t even be accurate anyhow, as anime characters are usually Asian. These critics don’t insult white cosplayers, however, showing that they have less of a problem with this aforementioned accuracy and more of a problem with seeing their favorite characters with a darker skin tone. Not only that, but racist depictions of people of color used to be ridiculously prominent in anime anyhow, outcasting Black consumers even more. Of course, it’s not just anime: It’s the books we read, it’s games we play and it’s the movies we watch that leave us high and dry for some semblance of inclusion that doesn’t feel like an insult. In recent years, I recognize that we’ve gotten tons of amazing Black characters in several pieces of media (anime included), but I also feel upset because it should not have taken so long to create well-developed Black characters. In fact, it had been done well in anime specifically since the early 2000s (thank you, Tite Kubo), but it was something few and far between.
As I get older, I feel more and more sorry for the Black girl who had to grow up feeling bad about who she was, along with feeling bad for my peers at the time who felt like they had to dishearten that girl: the girl who wished she could choose a gaming avatar that was a bit darker than tan, the girl who felt like she couldn’t talk about how much she liked Vocaloid music lest her Black friends think she’s too weird. With my newfound community, I can find a sense of belonging knowing that with every out-there interest I have, there is a Black friend I can discuss and enjoy it with. I’m glad for how much the “blerd” community has grown, and I’m even happier to be the confident Black girl with friends in this growing community helping me through it all.
Michigan in Color columnist Avery Adaeze Uzoije can be reached at auzoije@umich.edu. All photos were taken by Tyler Russell, who can be reached at russt@umich.edu.