I Was a Tourist Attraction in My Own Life
The first time I stepped off the plane in Shenzhen, I swear the air itself seemed to pause—like the universe held its breath just long enough to whisper, *“Welcome to the land where you’ll be both a tourist attraction and a social experiment.”* I’d read the warnings—“Black people get stared at,” “You’ll be asked to pose for photos,” “Be ready for the curiosity that borders on the invasive”—but nothing prepares you for the moment your passport is stamped and your reflection in a storefront window looks like a character from a sci-fi film shot in a city that’s been digitally enhanced for maximum aesthetic neutrality. I’m not exaggerating: I once made a local shopkeeper gasp so hard, he dropped a basket of mangoes. It wasn’t the mangoes that caused the drama—the man just wasn’t ready for a Black person to exist *that* close to his fruit display.
People don’t just look at you—they *study* you. Like you're a rare species in a zoo exhibit with a sign that says: “Homo sapiens (Black variant). Please do not touch.” I became a living Wikipedia page. “Why is your hair so curly?” “Do you swim with your eyes closed?” “Can you really jump high?” (No, I cannot, and yes, I *can* jump, but not high enough to make a 12-year-old in Xi’an faint.) I once got asked if I was “from Africa or the Moon.” I said, “The Moon, actually—just came back for a quick visit.” The girl giggled, then ran off. I still don’t know if she believed me or just thought I was a good joke.
But here’s where it gets weird—after the initial wave of “Oh my god, a real-life Black person!” wore off, something deeper crept in. It wasn’t just the stares anymore. It was the silence. The way people would *almost* sit next to me on the subway, then suddenly remember that “Black people don’t belong in my personal space” and scoot three seats away like I had a contagious aura of “otherness.” Kids would stare so hard their parents would whisper, “Don’t look, it’s rude,” which, of course, made them stare even harder. I started carrying a tiny mirror in my pocket just to see if I looked any less alien. Spoiler: I didn’t. I just looked like me—just slightly more dramatic under the neon lights of a Shenzhen night market.
And yet… there were moments of pure, unfiltered joy. Like when I walked into a small noodle shop in Chengdu and the owner, after staring for three full seconds, burst out laughing and said, “You’re *not* from the Moon, you’re just… very cool!” We ended up chatting about African drumming, and he even tried to mimic a djembe rhythm using a wooden spoon. That moment? Priceless. It wasn’t just acceptance—it was connection. A tiny crack in the wall of “otherness” where culture, not color, became the bridge.
Now here’s a surprise that’ll make you spit out your tea: China has more Black people than most people think. Not just tourists or expats—**there’s a small but growing community of Black Chinese citizens**, many of whom are descendants of African diplomats, students, and even former foreign workers from the 1960s and 70s. I met a woman in Guangzhou whose mother was a Ghanaian diplomat and whose father was a Chinese engineer. She speaks Mandarin with a perfect Shanghainese accent and once told me, “I’m Black, but I’m also Chinese. I don’t have to choose.” That hit me harder than any “Why are you so dark?” question ever did.
Over time, I stopped trying to explain myself. I stopped carrying the weight of being “the Black person in China” like a backpack full of bricks. I started smiling at the stares instead. I’d say, “Hi, I’m just here for the dumplings and the vibes.” Sometimes people would laugh and join me. Other times, they’d just… look. But I stopped caring about the why behind the look. The truth is, people don’t stare because they hate you—they stare because they’ve never seen someone like you before. And in a country where most faces look the same, a Black face isn’t just different—it’s *revolutionary* in the quietest way.
Now, when I walk through the streets of Shanghai on a rainy afternoon, my hair frizzed from the humidity and my sneakers squeaking on wet pavement, I don’t feel like a spectacle. I feel like I belong—because I *do*. Not because I’ve changed, but because the world has slowly, awkwardly, learned to adjust its lens. I’m not here to fix China’s perception of Blackness. I’m here to remind everyone that diversity isn’t a problem—it’s the most beautiful thing we all forget to appreciate.
So if you’re a Black person thinking about moving to China, or just curious about what it’s like to walk through life with a skin tone that makes strangers pause mid-stride—here’s my advice: Bring humor, carry patience, and never underestimate the power of a well-timed “Actually, I’m just here for the street food and the vibes.” And if someone asks you if you’re from the Moon? Just smile, say, “Nope—just here to live,” and keep walking. Because somewhere, in a tiny alley in Chongqing or a train station in Kunming, you’ll find your people. And your home.
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