I remember being in second grade. A big girl now. Sort of like, being a preteen… Considering the years, between Kindergarten and 5th grade. Far from an adolescent, but too old to truly be considered a baby. Here, in second grade, is where I was introduced to racism, classism, and colorism. Unfortunately, many of the attitudes and beliefs that came to rest in my being, are still quite present today.
I don’t know that adults ever really remember what it feels like to be so small in such a big world. I remember… But, I hoped that life would be different when my own offspring entered the unpredictable and oftentimes cruel, world of elementary school. But, this isn’t about my dreams of a perfect world for my children, this is about my descent into the South of the early 80s.
For a brief period as a 7 year old, I lived in Oakland, California. Just being in California, having been born in Louisiana, signified some type of “status”. I wouldn’t know the full meaning of this until much later, but even at such a young age, I realized the weight of it all. I remember walking uphill to school, which fascinated me, considering there were no hills where I came from.. At least not paved hills that were actually streets, and not just dirt mounds where dunebuggies are enjoyed.. I remember being in a classroom where my teacher was, I believe, Chinese, and several of my classmates were, as well. There was nothing odd about this, just a noted fact. I remember having friends and playing at recess and eating lunch outside. I just remember an overall feeling of belonging. Like I fit in. Like every thing was as it should be…
Fast forward about 9 months, and we moved back to Louisiana. I remember being at school.. No friends. In an environment where the majority of the students were white. I remember having to ride a bus across town, to get there. I remember feeling alone. Like, I didn’t fit in. Confused. Sad. How can this be? I’m in my home state, but yet, I couldn’t feel more like a visitor. This feeling propelled me to try as I might, and eventually leave Louisiana, for good. Two phrases I heard a lot growing up were, “white folks neighborhood” and “white folks school”. You had somehow made it if you were lucky enough to live in or attend one or both of these two places. There was hope in the idea of living in this area of town. An understanding that a school of this nature would lend a little black child some existence he/she would never have otherwise. I wish I could say I understood that then.. I wish I could say I understand it now. But, I can’t. I thought I knew what it meant at the time, and I was most grateful. However, this mentality only served to draw me into a world where I would become a colorist, for lack of a better word. Where whites are considered racist in their hatred toward other humans outside their race, I became one who held bitterness toward many of my own race. This uncomfortable realization didn’t come overnight, but the origin of the feelings almost did.
Being light-skinned, in a state that has been ravaged by racism for many years, carries baggage too heavy for anyone, but a 7 year old girl, who has already been scarred and bullied, would prove to be self-destructive… I quickly learned that I was considered to be poor, based on the cool erasers and pencil pouches the other students, mostly white, carried around school. Not many of the black students had these things, and it was a topic of conversation on any given day. The fact that I had to ride the bus to school, instead of walking, made it obvious that I wasn’t from the neighborhood. I didn’t have cash on hand to buy treats during lunch or recess or during carnival days or whenever the opportunity arose. I didn’t get brand new clothes throughout the year; just because. I barely got a new wardrobe at the beginning of the school year. It was not unusual for me, to not have all of my school supplies on the first day of school. But, all of these things paled in comparison to what really mattered as a 7 year old.
I just wanted a friend. I wanted to have something to look forward to at recess. I wanted to have friends to sit with at lunch. The way it was back in Oakland. But alas, I was too white to be with the black kids, and too black to be with the white kids.. What does that even mean??? There was no place for me. It was like watching a game of double dutch, and trying to catch the rhythm of the ropes, so that I could jump in; but failing to ever find the beat. It wasn’t just the moments where I wasn’t chosen to play kickball or tag or hopscotch. It was the compilation of a year filled with jabs and taunts because my hair was too thick, and didn’t flow freely like the white girls’ or the fact that my skin was too fair and I didn’t “talk country”, so I must have been an oreo. All of these things made me question my identity. Some days I longed to be white so that I could just have one day, where everything went right. But, surprisingly, I never longed to have a darker complexion. What ended up happening was, I began to despise my own people. Dark complexions became the enemy. Dark skin became synonymous with pain. Hurt. Venom. Evil. This “fact” would haunt me repeatedly in the years to come. Why couldn’t there be an in-between? Why couldn’t my classmates, white or black, and I, just get along? Find a middle-ground? Could it be our parents’ insecurities settling on us like dew on a frosty morning? Could it be their parents’ doubts and fears? Maybe the fact that the value of our humanity wasn’t important for so many years in this state. It could be any number of things that opened this box of woe. But, the truth remains that I found myself smack dab in the middle.
There was one little girl, from this terrible time, who holds a particularly special place in my heart. She became my own personal bully and tormentor during second grade and would later become an ally in high school, and eventual “friend”, as far as social media goes. She was unusually tall. She would later grow to be over 6 feet in height. She had a noticeably darker skin-tone and an even darker personality to match. Throughout this year, she would say some of the meanest words I’d ever heard in my young life. Words that would ride shotgun with me, through the decades. Of course now, as an adult, I can see where she may have felt the need to pick on weaker students to make herself feel stronger. I am fairly certain she may have been lashing out from the taunting she received from other students, especially boys, due to her height. It all makes sense. Now. But, that didn’t help me then. Teachers were no help. Afterall, they were mostly white, and at times it felt as if they were just tolerating us anyway. So, you learn to duck around buildings and keep your head lowered, as not to invite the taunts. I continued this style of living for the next couple of years, until I gained the strength to become an advocate for the underdog. I wish I could say that the bullying stopped and that I had an outrageous number of friends, but that would be a complete lie. I did however, begin to realize that I was somehow different and that I wasn’t meant to fit in with everyone… No matter how much I may have wanted to. Learning this as a child, I just felt weird. Knowing this as an adult, I feel special. I like being different. I love it, even. I realize not everyone will understand me, or like me for that matter. And, I’m finally ok with that. I used to say it didn’t matter if people liked me, and the innermost part of me was probably about 60% in belief of that statement. 100% of me believes it now, and that’s amazing.
On the flipside, I have struggled with colorism for many years since. Seemingly, every dark skinned person I can recall, especially male, that I’ve encountered during the last, maybe 30 years, has left a negative impact on my life. Whether it be, verbal, sexual, physical, emotional, or mental abuse, there have been negative connotations, in my mind, related to their skin-tone. During this time, a new issue became apparent. I felt I was in direct competition with other females who shared a common skin-tone as my own. Having light-skin as a black female, is usually synonymous with beauty. However, this monicker left me as an outcast, once again. Remember, I have already been trained to believe that I am ugly. Nose too big. Hair too kinky.. How can this be? I just can’t seem to win. I remember being called “high-yellow” and “Red-boned” and feeling these are positive, but at the same time negative. It’s all too much. Can I just be called by my name? The most dis-heartening part of this existence, is the hate from my own kind. I began to study people and I started to realize that, when white people were racist, they were hard-pressed to keep it a secret. By the same token, black people, not all, but several of the ones I’ve crossed paths with, who suffered from colorism, whether by choice or by chance, are also hard-pressed to keep it a secret. Racism looks like: being called nigger, or having white students move away from you at lunch and state they don’t want to be “caught with your kind”… Colorism looks like: “she thank she all that cause she light-skinneded (skinned)”, “that ain’t her real hair (even though it was), “she must be a mutt (meaning mixed)”… So, a choice needed to be made. I don’t want to give white people a pass here, but being taught to hate because of familial and cultural history, is one thing. Spewing hate toward someone of your own race because of jealousy or poor self-image is another. I can speak on this, because on more than one occasion, I too, have been a spewer of this venom. I wore it as a means of self-defense, in much the same way as my tall, second grade bully, wore those taunts as a shield. Most of my spewing was to myself or to a close acquaintance, as a way of fitting in. But, always in the back of my mind, it hurt. I didn’t want to become one of the people who had made my life so miserable. One of the saddest things I remember thinking and saying, while watching Roots, is “ha, I would be a house-nigger”, as if being a nigger at all, is a good thing. Many of you may never understand this sentiment, but, it is a reality for so many in our race. Being inside and working in the coolness of the house, being treated with a tiny measure of what was considered, decency, considering the circumstances, as opposed to working in the fields, sweating and being treated like an animal, sounded like a much better option. This slave-mentality, came to rest upon my shoulders as an ill-fitting yoke. In my youth, I was so jaded by the words of others, that I couldn’t understand the gravity of my mental undoing. It would take just a little while longer for my jejune mind to catch up with my physical maturity.
After some time, I finally realized that not all white students and teachers were racist and not all black students meant me harm. Over the years since, I have found my place. It’s no place and every place all at once. I blossom where I am welcomed and I flounder where I feel shunned. Every person has a story attached to their way of being. Attitude. Mannerisms. Behaviors. I accept people for who they are. No matter the color. I love to learn about different cultures and I would love for people to question me about mine. Honestly, I don’t know what it means to tell you about my culture. I’m black. That’s about it. I have worked so hard to just find out who I am and to be me, that I haven’t spent much time trying to categorize one specific aspect of blackness. I guess I just don’t want to be placed in a box. It’s too constricting and most of all, it’s boring. I want to just learn how to live. Yea. I like the sound of that.
apeaceofmine 