To be “ghetto” is to be many things. Immediately, when most people think of the word, they picture an angry Black woman with long artificial nails and hair. In their minds, she’s probably waving her finger, going off about something that only a “ghetto” woman would have to deal with. However, when I think of the word, I picture a strong, powerful and independent ethnic individual that may need to raise their voice just to be heard over the stereotypes that suffocate their character and prevent them from being who they are.
I had no idea I was “ghetto” until someone told me. I moved from my neighborhood in the eastern side of Richmond to a suburban community in the middle of the county. It was a culture change to say the least. However, I had no idea what was in store for me.
I walked into my sixth grade year wearing Nike Dunks and chunky gold jewelry with my head held high. I looked around and saw all of the White girls wearing Sperry’s and toting their Vera Bradley lunchboxes. While all of this was very new to me, I still made my first attempt at making new friends by introducing myself. I tried telling people where I had come from, but they knew nothing about my neck of the woods other than the fact that there was no organic foods market, frozen yogurt café or even a Starbucks. This was the first time in my life that I had felt out of place and I had absolutely no idea how to handle it.
The same day I walked into my first year of middle school, I walked out an entirely new person. However, this entirely new persona was not mine. It was not me. It was a fabricated version of myself that other people made me feel like I needed to be. My box braids were not going to cut it. My clothes looked nothing like the other girls’ and whoever walked into sixth grade on that day just wasn’t good enough.
By the end of the first week, I had almost completely erased the “old” Erica. “New and improved” Erica didn’t wear high-top sneakers, colorful leggings or anything else that she used to wear to express herself. New and improved Erica was quiet, reserved and most importantly, she “talked less Black.”
It was my first year at a brand new school in a brand new place and I wanted nothing more than to fit in, so I took it to the extreme. It wasn’t until I moved to an area more like the one I was used to that I realized there was nothing wrong with me. It wasn’t until I was back around the people I grew up with that I realized there was nothing wrong with me. It wasn’t until I accepted myself, tight curls, big hoop earrings, “ghetto girl attitude” and all, that I realized there was nothing wrong with me. In certain settings, I may have no one that comes from the same cultural background that I do and that’s perfectly okay. My vernacular may differ from others and that’s perfectly okay.
I’m a little ghetto. And that’s perfectly okay.