Brandon Bazemore
Professor Colombo Russell
Eng 101 – Freshman Composition
September 17, 2025
Finding My Voice
Growing up as a Black man in America, the way I talked often drew attention before people really knew me. Starting in elementary school, classmates would pause during our conversations to ask things like, “Why do you talk like that?” or, “You sound white.” At first, I
didn’t get what they meant. “How does someone even sound white?” I would ask myself. I spoke the way I always had, in what many called “proper English.” To me, it felt normal. My mom read to me every night when I was little, and she always encouraged me to read books on my own. That practice shaped the way I spoke and the vocabulary I used, but the more I heard those questions, the more I understood that people were pointing out that I didn’t match the stereotype they had of how a young black boy from Brooklyn should sound.
At first, those comments hurt. I would overthink every syllable that exited my mouth, wondering if I dragged a word out for too long or if it sounded too “white”. I remember sitting in class one Friday during free time. My friend and I were talking about Pokémon Sun and Moon,
which had just been released. I barely noticed the noise from others discussing their weekend plans until a girl I had never spoken to leaned over and asked, “Why do you talk like that?” In my nine-year-old mind, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with my voice. My words felt fine to me. But the look on her face made me feel like I had made a mistake.
For a while, I tried to change how I spoke. I paid attention to how the other kids talked, noticing the slang they used and the rhythm of their words. I would mimic them in small ways, hoping to fit in better. But it felt forced. I stumbled over phrases that didn’t come naturally,
making my sentences sound awkward. The more I tried, the more uncomfortable I became. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t keep pretending to be someone I’m not.
The turning point came when I had a conversation with my parents. One day after school, I told them that kids kept saying I sounded white. I remember my dad saying, “The way you speak is not wrong. It isn’t less black. It is just you.” My mom agreed and reminded me of all the
books she had read to me as a child and the stories I had read on my own since. Hearing that made me stop questioning myself. I realized that the people teasing me weren’t really criticizing me, they were criticizing their own narrow view of what it meant to be black. My feelings did not change. Throughout middle school, people sometimes said I was whitewashed or that I didn’t sound Black. Sometimes it was a joke, other times, an insult. By then, though, I had accepted it. I stopped trying to twist my voice into something fake. I knew who I was and showed how much I had learned, and how much effort I had put into growing. It took me a long time to realize that refusing to change my voice was a way of projecting my identity and showing pride in who I am.
Looking back, I see my experience as part of a larger story. In America, especially for young black men, there is often pressure to fit into a stereotype, whether it’s about how you dress, act, or speak. Many force us into boxes that often don’t reflect who we really are. My voice is not less “black” just because it doesn’t fit someone else’s idea of what blackness should sound like. My voice is mine.
Since then, I still felt self-conscious sometimes when someone pauses after hearing me speak. But those feelings don’t last. I’m able to take it on the chin and laugh it off, not thinking much of it. Speaking in any specific way doesn’t make me any more or less black. How I speak is just one of the many parts that make up my identity.