Let me tell you about the last time I was The Only Black Friend in a group.

It was nursing school.

I attended the University of Alabama in Huntsville in their traditional Bachelor of Science in Nursing program. Admission was incredibly competitive. Every fall, roughly 130 students were admitted, and when my class began, only five of us were Black.

Those five students were intentionally spread across different clinical cohorts, so although we’d smile and chat whenever we crossed paths, our classes and rotations rarely overlapped. Naturally, we each built friendships within our own cohorts. (Don’t worry, the story has a happy ending there. Most of us eventually became friends after graduation and somehow ended up moving to Mississippi for work.)

The girls I spent most of my time with were local Huntsville girls who, like me, still lived at home or nearby. After about a year of studying, surviving exams, and spending weekends together, one of them invited us to her family’s vacation home in Sandestin between exams.

Now, I had never been to the Gulf Coast before.

Friend…the Florida Panhandle deserves every bit of the hype.

Soft white sand that feels almost powdered beneath your feet. Water so clear you question whether you’re still in the United States. We cruised around the resort in golf carts, spent our days at the beach, and I remember thinking life felt pretty perfect.

Then came the second-to-last night.

We decided to go out to the Village of Baytowne Wharf.

Everyone was drinking.

I was drinking slowly, I learned pretty early in life that somebody has to remain functional, and somehow I always become that person. Designated driver. Keeper of the room. The one making sure everybody gets home.

As the night went on, our host kept disappearing.

Now listen…we don’t do that.

At least not the Black women I grew up around.

If somebody disappears, somebody goes looking.

So while the other two girls barely seemed concerned, I went to find her.

Eventually I spotted her tucked away in a corner, passionately making out with a man I had never seen before.

I paused for a second because I wasn’t trying to interrupt anybody’s Hallmark moment.

Then a thought crossed my mind.

“Wait…isn’t she engaged?”

I walked back to the group and asked, “Is her fiancé here? Because y’all know I mix up white boys all the time.”

They laughed.

“Nope. That’s definitely not her fiancé.”

Well.

That changed things.

I walked back over, gently pulled her away from the guy, and said, “Alright. Time to go home.”

Friend.

She turned on me so fast you’d have thought I had ruined her entire life instead of preventing what could have become a much bigger problem.

Eventually I convinced the other girls to help me get her back to the house. We got her into bed, and after doing most of the heavy lifting myself, I finally went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up early to check on everyone.

Only to discover they had already been awake.

Long enough to agree on a story.

Long enough to decide that I was now the problem.

They weren’t worried about their friend cheating on her fiancé.

They were worried that I might tell him.

Girl.

I wasn’t worried about telling anybody.

I was worried about getting myself home alive.

I calmly assured them I had no intention of saying anything. I agreed we should cut the trip short and head back to Huntsville.

And when we got home, I quietly walked away from that friendship.

I never spoke to her again.

That experience has stayed with me for years.

Not because I regret helping her.

I’d do it again tomorrow.

It stayed with me because I learned how quickly the only Black person in the room can become the easiest person to assign blame to.

Whether that’s what happened here or not, that’s exactly how it felt to me.

When you’re the only one, there is no one else who naturally shares your cultural instincts, your sense of responsibility, or your interpretation of what just happened.

Sometimes, if the group decides there has to be a villain…

you’re standing there by yourself.

Always Have, Always Will ~ Kalie

P.S. My husband and I returned Sandestin beach the next year for my birthday. Here are some pictures from our trip, (look how far phone picture quality has come).