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“You may be black on the outside, but you sho’ got a cream filling.” “You must have white blood in your family.” “I guess you think ‘cause you yella (light-skinned) you better than me.” “Oh she is okay, she is not like those people.” “She think she white.”
As I am sure you have noticed, in every bunch there is one poor soul that everyone picks on. One person who is allowed to stay if, and only if, he or she does not say too much or disagree with the crowd. In America the “light-skinned Negro” is that person. From birth we are told our skin pigment or, the lack thereof, is a kind of cursed blessing. We are held up as examples of beauty and intelligence by one aspect of society, but sullied in schoolyards and around water coolers by the other.
I was first debased in high school when I was introduced to the word “dialect.” Whenever the opportunity availed itself, my peers informed me that this “dialect” creature was the first of a list of blemishes, which made me “less than black.” The next item up for bids was my hair. Mine did not meet the criteria for many reasons, the most important of these being excessive length and “abnormal” texture. Not to be outdone is the issue of my figure. According to my constituents I was “too skinny.” These properties brought with them endless outtakes starring me as the butt of the same joke. The lunchtime orators were always kind enough to change the words a little, yet the gag invariably ended with the words “white girl.”
I became a virtual pariah amongst my age group. The name “wannabe”
was immediately tattooed on my forehead in large scarlet letters.
For those of you who do not know, “wannabe” is a term used in the “black”
community to describe any person of color who speaks, looks, or behaves
in any manner not befitting the “black” stereotype. In an effort
to fit in I began to dumb down my speech and tried to conceal my “white
girl” physique using “Negro” camouflage. I am referring to the baggy
pant and expensive shirt ensemble “black” teens are so fond of. I
wanted to cut my hair but I didn’t (my mother wouldn’t have it.)
When none of this worked I joined the Black Muslins.
They provided some comfort at first. Their general philosophy
dictates all of the colors in the black rainbow are beautiful. However
these principles were subject to mockery in my personal dealings with the
flock. At various after-meeting-socials I was bombarded with statements
such as: “It is not your fault the man raped you ancestors,” and “Because
of the rape of our foremothers you, of all people, should hate the man.”
After a year or so of close contact with these people, at empowerment functions and the like, I could not stand it anymore. I know what you are thinking and you are wrong. I did not quit because I was being taught to hate white people. It was not the bacon thing either. I was willing to give up or hate anything under God to feel better about myself.
Under the guise we love all our brothers and sisters, they were subliminally feeding me “you cannot be like us because you are the product of blasphemy.” In their eyes I represented the rape of Negro slave women and thus the rape of African culture. I was not a person to them. I was symbol of what went “wrong” in our history.
At this point I was out of options. How would I ever become worthy? Furthermore, if the people who were suppose to be the very heart of the American Negro had no love for me, maybe I did not deserve it. I carried these tumultuous thoughts for quite some time. During which contact with a “black” person brought a bevy of conflicting emotions.
Should I revert to my acting days? Should I risk rejection again? Will it always be this way? Will they ever accept me? Why do I have to be different? Why can’t I fit in? When at long last I grew tired of these questions I did a 180. In view of the fact that I was not wanted in the “black” community I decided to try befriending white people.
Can you say double-edged sword? Here I received plenty of friendship and understanding (most white people are full of understanding.) I was also praised for the very things I that brought me so much pain in my adolescence. My figure was not “skinny” but perfect, and an object of extreme jealousy. According to my new friends my “dialect” was a sign of intelligence.
I had many things in common with my little circle as well. We were all angry with our mothers for ruining our lives and we all agreed that florescent spandex should be banned from civilization. But there was one fundamental thing missing, there was no kinship.
They did not and will never know what is like to be in this skin. They will not know, the pain of the rejection of thine own. They do not understand why the sight of the rebel flag sets off a rage deep within me. Try as they might Hillary and Monica (not their real names) just did not get some of my jokes, or childhood references. It took three years before they truly understood the mechanics behind the chemicals I put in my hair and why the very recommendation of venturing into to salt water sent tremors down my spine.
Not to mention the fact that I grew tired of hearing the word “nigger” every time I patronized an all white establishment with a white male escort. (White people are also very protective of their sons.) Instead of being labeled “wannabe,” I was the subject of the statement “I am not prejudice, I have a black friend.” Welcome to the world of the “token.”
It became clear to me that the old adage about grass and greenery was accurate. I truly love them both but I realized I did not want to be white either. So I threw my leg over the proverbial fence and set up shop. Monica, Hillary, and I will remain close but I knew I needed to identify with my genealogy.
Somewhere in my early twenties it occurred to me no other race has a “test of ethnicity.” No other people separate their kind according to their outside appearance. Lastly no other legacy comes with as much of a burden as the heritage of the American Negro.
We the (black) people must shoulder the weight of hundreds of years of oppression. We’ve been taught via bigotry, ignorance, and fear that we belong in a certain place and to step out of said place is either wrong or too frightening to attempt. For this reason the “pigmentally challenged” are forced to bear the pain of all “black” people. Until now I chose to do so because failure to participate would mean causing grief to my genre.
My little revelation changed all that. I no longer feel it necessary to mold myself into anyone else’s image of “blackness.” I chose to own by blackness. I became wholly conscious of the fact that “this is not a tan,” (Halle Berry as Dorothy Dandridge.) Nor am I a reptile. My parents gave me the only African keepsake I would ever need. This discovery was very liberating. I felt as if I were invincible. No words or stares could strip me of my blackness because it is a God given right.
The sad part of all of this is my skin color will remain my blessing/curse. In spite of everything I have gained emotionally this is America. How does the Anthem play…land of the free and the home of…some of the most selfish and galactically stupid people on earth?
I still notice the looks of disapproval I just do not feel threatened by them. I also have the occasion to flip the on/off switch of the “dialect” button. Not because I want to fit in. On the contrary I play the “dialect” game when I wish to intimidate someone or to make a kind friend of my grandmother’s feel more comfortable.
Hence I am able to strike fear in the heart of a little sorority girl who is about to make off with the last Heath in Circle K, thereby securing myself my favorite candy bar. I am also guaranteed a job after graduation thanks to affirmative action. On the other hand I am constantly put into situations that leave me open to racist comments. Just whom do you think I will be working with at my new job?
I am going to assume almost everyone who will read this piece has a friend/acquaintance similar to myself. This is not about that person. I assure you this friend/acquaintance has in some way shape or form come to grips with his or her own blackness. If not, the last thing they want is to hear about it from you. I would conversely like to ask you to consider my essay the next time you are face to face with a child of mixed heritage.
I implore you to stop separating them with your eyes, gestures, and
words. I am aware of the reasoning behind it. To be candid
I would have to say, to some extent, I understand. But don’t you
think enough is enough? Isn’t it time we give up these ancient notions
of what it means to be black? This problem is not prevalent in any
other country. We are supposed to be the leaders of the free world.
It is the opinion of this writer that the child of mixed heritage has been
somewhat forgotten in this age of “think of the children.” You see
he or she must not only face those who would seek to harm them but those
who claim to love them as well.