I started to resent my culture
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Attending a predominantly white school was challenging for me.
I was born in Ghana and moved to Canada when I was six.
I had a hard time finding common ground with other kids in Regina, Saskatchewan, and building friendships.
The subtle comments and actions from my peers often left me feeling isolated.
It made me like the odd one out when they commented on my braids, or how fast I could run.
But it was during Black History Month in Grade 5 that I truly felt the weight of my difference.
I became a symbol of tragedy
Our teacher began discussing the history of Black people in North America, detailing the horrors of slavery and the systemic oppression that followed.
As she spoke, I could feel the eyes of my classmates slowly turning toward me, their gazes filled with pity.
It was as if I were a relic of the past — a living representation of the pain and suffering she was describing.
But the history of Black people in Canada is not my history since I was born in Africa. My family wasn’t enslaved.
I felt confused: Why were the kids in the class looking at me and linking me to this history?
They would ask me questions as if I had the answers when I had only just learned about it.
I vividly remember the teacher saying that slavery still has an impact on Black people to this day.
She said white people killed so many of them and their family members.
Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Bennie, when she was 10, on the day she and her family took the citizenship oath and became Canadians. She was born in Ghana. (Image submitted by Bennie Krakue)
At that moment, I wasn’t just a classmate. I felt like a symbol of tragedy — a reminder of a history I had no control over.
I hated that feeling — the way it made me shrink inside myself.
I wanted the month to end and to stop being the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons.
Things only got worse over time
But it didn’t stop there.
The small, seemingly harmless comments from my peers only reinforced my sense of otherness.
When I came to school with cornrows for the first time, someone in my class said, “Your head looks like an egg.”
Another chimed in, “You look like one of the slaves from that video we watched.”
Their words cut deep, and from that day on, I avoided getting cornrows.
I started to resent my hair — the very thing that connected me to my culture.
Those comments planted a seed of self-doubt that grew with each passing year.
Bennie, right, with her younger brother, Ben, shortly after moving to Canada. (Image submitted by Bennie Krakue)
As I got older, things got worse.
What started as “innocuous” questions during Black History Month turned into outright racism.
Classmates casually drop the N-word, laughing as if it were a joke.
When I tried to speak up, they said I was being too sensitive or overreacting.
So, I learned to stay quiet, to laugh along and to make myself smaller so I could fit in.
I convinced myself that blending in was better than standing out, even if it meant sacrificing pieces of who I was.
For a long time, I dreaded Black History Month.
I would fake illnesses, hoping to avoid the awkwardness and pain that came with it.
The racist “jokes,” the stares, the pity — it all felt like too much to bear.
Being the only one in the room, feeling so utterly alone, is a heavy burden to carry.
It’s isolating, almost depressing, to know that no matter how hard you try to fit in, you’ll always be seen as different.
How I’ve changed
This all changed for me in June 2024 after I turned 16.
When I opened up to a friend about how I was feeling, she pointed out the stress this was causing me and suggested I tell my older brother, who is 30.
We went out for breakfast and I broke down. I told him everything, about how I was struggling.
Having him listen was a huge help.
He told me I wasn’t the first person to feel this way and wouldn’t be the last.
But he reminded me this isn’t a burden I should carry alone and that I have a support system. I was too inside my world to realize people could help me.
Bennie, centre, poses with her two brothers — Ben, right, and Raphael, left, the one who helped her when she was struggling. (Image credit: Raphael Krakue)
I have a group of friends through my church youth group who are from all different backgrounds.
My brother told me I shouldn’t worry about the kids at school and focus on the people who truly accept me for who I am.
I felt a huge sense of relief.
It’s taken time to unlearn the self-hatred that was planted in me during those formative years, but I’m slowly reclaiming my identity.
For years, I felt ashamed of my feelings because my parents moved our family to Canada so we could have a better education and future.
I felt guilty that I was letting these people have so much power over my emotions.
I remember when my mom would ask me if I was OK, I would lie and I could see she didn’t believe me.
After that conversation with my brother, I came out of my shell.
I have started to express my emotions and open up to my mom more without feeling guilty. She’s become my best friend.
Through it all, I’ve learned that my differences are not a flaw — they are a strength.
My hair, my culture, my history — they are not something to be ashamed of.
They are a part of me, and nothing can take that away.
I feel like Black History Month isn’t the history of all Black people, but I’ve come to like learning about it.
Now I’m not as sensitive about it and I’ve decided to start learning about my own family’s history as well.
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TOP IMAGE CREDIT: Submitted by Bennie Krakue, Graphic design by Philip Street/CBC
