“When people rely on surface appearances and false racial stereotypes, rather than in-depth knowledge of others at the level of the heart, mind, and spirit, their ability to assess and understand people accurately is compromised.”- James A. Forbes.
A few months ago, former Republican presidential candidate/neurosurgeon Ben Carson said in an interview that he believed President Obama cannot understand “the experience of black Americans” because he was “raised white” and spent a few years of his childhood in Indonesia *cue eye roll*. These comments made me angry for a number of reasons. Firstly, our first 43 presidents in a row were white, Christian males and to degrade the first man of color to make it into the White House just because he doesn’t meet your standards of “blackness” is beyond ignorant. Secondly, Indonesia is a country in Southeast Asia with 95% of its population being native- not exactly the whitest place in the world. Thirdly, while I commend Ben Carson for overcoming a life of poverty to become an excellent physician, that doesn’t make him the official judge of who does or doesn’t meet the qualifications for being truly black. The more I mulled over these asinine comments, the more I thought about them in regard to my own experience being black.
For my entire life, it would seem, I have existed in a state of limbo. Those I meet are not quite sure what to do with me. Sure, from the outside it is pretty clear that I am a black female, through and through. This is a fact I now state proudly, though that wasn’t always the case. But the confusion often starts to set in once people actually get to know me. Where’d I grow up? The suburbs. Have I ever done drugs? No, it’s not really my scene. You think I’m well-spoken? Uh, thanks, did you expect otherwise? Slowly, but surely, the assumptions that they hadn’t even realized they held about me get knocked down. To them, there is a disparity between the way I look and how I act and think. I may still look black, but I’m not quite black enough…
Now, I want to be 100% clear. This article isn’t about me trying to distance myself from the black community by claiming that I am, in some way, better than anyone because I was raised a certain way. I take pride in my race- we are strong, resilient, colorful, and bold. We fight back against adversity and push through the barriers that face us each and every day. This article is my effort to bring light to the diversity within our community to combat the stereotypes that are placed on us. My purpose in writing this is to spread awareness of the fact that one size does not fit all. We are individuals from many different nations with many different languages, customs, and histories, and we are allowed to live our lives as we choose. I have been categorized in my own life and I hope to help break down predjudice by telling my personal story.
My realization of the importance of race started very young. I attended a private Presbyterian school for many years where the number of minority students probably could have been counted on one hand. The other kids, often my own friends, would point out that I had a “white” name. A classmate once asked me if I attended a “black church”. The term “oreo”- meaning I was black on the outside but white on the inside- was continously thrown my way. If I’m being honest, there was a part of my young self that relished in these sort of comments; in my mind, this was their way of accepting me as one of their own. This gave me validation- I wasn’t uncultered or ghetto, I was bright, intelligent, and wanted. Looking back now I understand that it is an insult, not a compliment, to strip me of my identity just because I differ from the stereotypes of my race.
As I got older, I switched over to the public school system and finally began to interact with a more diverse group of people, although I was still attending predominantly white schools. I was still considered to be “less black” than other students. I got good grades, I had neither natural hair nor a weave, and I stayed out of trouble. But, at the same time, I became a sort of ambassador for the black community. “Who is allowed to use the N-word?” I would be asked, to which I would sigh and attempt to quickly explain a very complicated topic. There were hardly any other students who looked like me in my AP classes and a teacher once questioned me why this was. Embarrassed at being singled out, I didn’t have a good answer. “How should I know the business of every other black student here?” I thought, “We’re not all telepathically linked, you know.” I was caught in a hard place and I wasn’t sure exactly where I belonged. I certainly felt my blackness when I took an African American History class. Whoever covered my family’s house with toilet paper, along with the homes of every other black family on the street, the night President Obama was elected in 2008 definitely didn’t question our race. But I didn’t speak or act the way black characters on TV and in movies and music videos spoke and acted and this tripped people up.
There finally came a point when I realized I was holding myself back by trying to figure out which box to check. I am who I am, that’s the simple truth. The people who were making snide comments or asking rude questions usually didn’t come from a place a bigotry, but rather cluelessness and unfamiliarity (of course, there were exceptions). They assusme an entire demographic of human beings act and think the same way because of a shared skin tone. But- get this- we don’t. Their expectations were a reflection of them, not me. All I could do was live me life the way I was. The truth is, my upbringing does not make me disconnected from the black experience. I didn’t grow up in poverty, yet I understand the need for governmental programs that assist the poor. I don’t have any friends or family members in prison, yet I recognize the devestating effects mass incarceration and the War on Drugs have had on the black community. I’ve never had a violent interaction with a cop, yet I am a supporter of the Black Lives Matter movement. All of these issues are intensely important to me because I care about my community and my people. In the words of Martin Luther King Jr., “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
These days, I still sometimes see the slight raise of an eyebrow when I tell people my father is a pediatrician. They still make fun of me for my “basic white girl” name. I still find myself in the uncomfortable position of witnessing someone crack a race joke. But I do not take these suggestions that I’ve shrugged off my blackness as compliments. Rather, it lights a fire in me. I do not hesitate to question people on both their conscious and subconscious predjudices. “Why is it you’re so shocked my father is a doctor?” “Would it make more sense if I had a so-called ghetto name?” “How would you feel if I made a not-so-harmless joke about some ridiculous and idiotic stereotype about white people?” Words can seem benign but they stem from biases that we are still trying to overcome; repeating them only perpetuates ignorance further. Thinking before you open your mouth is always a great strategy.
So, yeah, I enjoy hip-hop and rap; I also happen to have a penchant for Broadway show tunes. I can be loud when I want to be, but I can also be pretty quiet and reserved. I love history, novels, politics, and, yes, spicy food! I have so many sides to me because I am human and I cannot be pinned down. I doubt every caucasian person you know went to prep school, owns a yacht, sucks at basketball, or has a wonderful relationship with their father; it would be absurd to assume these things. People in general- blacks, whites, latinos, asians, arabs, native americans- are tired of being pigeonholed. When it comes down to it, I am black enough, just by the fact that I happen to be black. I don’t have to act, speak, or dress a certain way to reinforce anything. Your skepticism proves that it’s you, not me, who is lacking. So I’m gonna do me, and you do you- labels be damned.