All my life, I have been a minority. I am mixed. My mother is white and my father is black. As a young kid, I don’t think I ever realized I was different, but as anyone grows older, reality hits hard.
The dreaded topic of slavery always came up in whatever social studies class I was taking. You would think that I would have felt good since the world isn’t like how it was, but all I felt was sadness. I sat in the classroom and I felt as though everyone’s eyes were glancing at me with some sort of judgment, or even worse, pity.
Throughout high school, I had always been a rare species. Correction: an endangered species. I am relatively smart so I was always in advanced classes, and had pretty much been the only African American in those classes. Most of the other minorities were on a regular track. I don’t say this to brag about myself, but to depict how strange I felt at times. I was called the “token black smart girl,” and you would think that I felt some sense of honor. However, I never understood why color had anything to do with it.
People in my life have made many jokes about me because of the color of my skin, not to be hurtful, but funny. I’ve been called countless names that reflect my skin color, only twice used in a bad way. Any question that begins with “Do black people,” is a question I wish I could avoid. Stereotypes seem to be a popular topic in society. People preach that stereotyping is wrong, but no one ever seems to really understand. The worst part is that there are people that hate that their race or ethnicity is being cruelly stereotyped, but they continue to live up to it.
My friends stereotype me, and even African Americans in general. “My dad would never let me date a black guy,” is a common phrase I am told. This naturally makes me wonder if there are guys that would “never date me” because of how their parents feel about my color. They don’t know me. I can’t say that I am perfect, but my skin should not feel like a flaw to me.
I do not have much room to judge, because even I stereotype people, including myself. I don’t exactly know why I do it. Sometimes it’s to get a laugh, and sometimes I think it’s a cover because I am uncomfortable about my skin color. A lot of the time I genuinely feel that the stereotype is funny. But even if I feel the slightest bit of discomfort, I go along with it because I don’t want to be the girl who can’t take a joke.
It’s funny that we are told it’s good to be unique, but anything that makes us different serves as a basis for what we can be judged upon. It may not always be easy to be different, but I am glad that I have had these experiences. They have taught me about patience, acceptance, and even hope. I know that I will work tirelessly until I can feel not only comfortable in my own skin, but proud.