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My true account below was originally written and published in East's school magazine, SPARK, under the title: Beyond Black and White.
I was ten. My only worry was whether I could get the chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles after soccer practice. I had just unlaced my neon pink soccer cleats and slid on my black Adidas sandals. While waiting for my dad on the playground, I noticed a little girl in a yellow shirt and long braids sitting on the swing set, feet dangling, not moving the chains enough to swing.
My dad coached multiple sports during the school year and oversaw camps during the summer, so I had been around kids of all ages for as long as I could remember. I didn't hesitate to offer my help. I however did not expect the six year-old blonde to respond, "I can't talk to people that look like you. Your skin is too dark. You're dirty," before running away.
I had been through enough public schooling to know that slavery and racism are a part of our nation's history. What my ten year-old brain could not comprehend was that it still existed. How could someone not like me or find my help invaluable because I had slightly more melanin in my skin? I hadn't asked to be born black.
While she saw me as too black, my friends disagreed. To them I "talked white." My mom had forced the habit of using proper grammar into my head and I became "the whitest black girl" they knew. My mom knew from experience that every little skill counted. Working in corporate America, she realized I would have to work ten times harder and be 12 times better than the majority of men and women I would eventually compete against for jobs to be granted a chance of employment. The Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) backed her up. In 2013, BLS reported that 6.5 percent of Whites, 9.1 percent of Hispanics and 13.1 percent of Blacks were unemployed.
At the end of my fifth grade year I started bringing home Bs on my interim and report cards and was not bothered. My mother reviewed my grades and began asking why her A student found it acceptable to bring home Bs. I admitted that the work was as easy as it had been earlier in the year, so she questioned my goals, and I clarified that I was happy with Bs. My mother was outraged when she learned that the teacher of my "gifted" class made a point to tell me, "Never set your goals too high, you'll only disappoint yourself." Upon taking her advice, my grades fell.
Both my mother and father were adamant that their children wouldn't follow in their footsteps, but that we would graduate from college. According to the 2010 United States Census, if we followed their wishes, my brother and I would be a part of the 18 percent of Blacks to earn a bachelor's degree. My dad has preached the importance of education our whole lives. He explained that there was a higher probability of my brother getting the yellow Lamborghini he wanted if he finished college and landed a job that capitalized on his talents and education. In January, 2015, BLS reported that black men employed full-time averaged 667 dollars a week, while white men also employed full time, averaged 907 dollars a week. It is likely that my hazel-eyed little brother would have to save his money a little while longer than his white co-workers.
No one else in the eighth grade knew what career they wanted, but I had to start chasing my dream of becoming a lawyer early. The big carpeted office with windows overlooking the city that I wanted would cost me more time, patience and education than most. I was to expect being overlooked and my talents being put on the back burner because my hair wasn't as fine or soft as the women already employed by the firm and I didn't need to lie in a bed under blue lights to ensure that I wouldn't "look like a ghost" during the winter. A 100 percent on a homework assignment in fifth grade science was more than just a smiley face sticker on the top of my paper, it was a stepping stone for the rest of my future.
I was ten. My only worry was whether I could get the chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles after soccer practice. I had just unlaced my neon pink soccer cleats and slid on my black Adidas sandals. While waiting for my dad on the playground, I noticed a little girl in a yellow shirt and long braids sitting on the swing set, feet dangling, not moving the chains enough to swing.
My dad coached multiple sports during the school year and oversaw camps during the summer, so I had been around kids of all ages for as long as I could remember. I didn't hesitate to offer my help. I however did not expect the six year-old blonde to respond, "I can't talk to people that look like you. Your skin is too dark. You're dirty," before running away.
I had been through enough public schooling to know that slavery and racism are a part of our nation's history. What my ten year-old brain could not comprehend was that it still existed. How could someone not like me or find my help invaluable because I had slightly more melanin in my skin? I hadn't asked to be born black.
While she saw me as too black, my friends disagreed. To them I "talked white." My mom had forced the habit of using proper grammar into my head and I became "the whitest black girl" they knew. My mom knew from experience that every little skill counted. Working in corporate America, she realized I would have to work ten times harder and be 12 times better than the majority of men and women I would eventually compete against for jobs to be granted a chance of employment. The Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) backed her up. In 2013, BLS reported that 6.5 percent of Whites, 9.1 percent of Hispanics and 13.1 percent of Blacks were unemployed.
At the end of my fifth grade year I started bringing home Bs on my interim and report cards and was not bothered. My mother reviewed my grades and began asking why her A student found it acceptable to bring home Bs. I admitted that the work was as easy as it had been earlier in the year, so she questioned my goals, and I clarified that I was happy with Bs. My mother was outraged when she learned that the teacher of my "gifted" class made a point to tell me, "Never set your goals too high, you'll only disappoint yourself." Upon taking her advice, my grades fell.
Both my mother and father were adamant that their children wouldn't follow in their footsteps, but that we would graduate from college. According to the 2010 United States Census, if we followed their wishes, my brother and I would be a part of the 18 percent of Blacks to earn a bachelor's degree. My dad has preached the importance of education our whole lives. He explained that there was a higher probability of my brother getting the yellow Lamborghini he wanted if he finished college and landed a job that capitalized on his talents and education. In January, 2015, BLS reported that black men employed full-time averaged 667 dollars a week, while white men also employed full time, averaged 907 dollars a week. It is likely that my hazel-eyed little brother would have to save his money a little while longer than his white co-workers.
No one else in the eighth grade knew what career they wanted, but I had to start chasing my dream of becoming a lawyer early. The big carpeted office with windows overlooking the city that I wanted would cost me more time, patience and education than most. I was to expect being overlooked and my talents being put on the back burner because my hair wasn't as fine or soft as the women already employed by the firm and I didn't need to lie in a bed under blue lights to ensure that I wouldn't "look like a ghost" during the winter. A 100 percent on a homework assignment in fifth grade science was more than just a smiley face sticker on the top of my paper, it was a stepping stone for the rest of my future.
CNN's 'Breaking News' alerts would not allow me to be ignorant of racial inequalities and injustices that occur in and outside of the workplace even 152 years after Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. While I wasn't with Trayvon, Mike, Eric or Tamir when they were shot, and cannot declare who was in the wrong, I felt an ounce of the fear they must have experienced at my own neighborhood grocer.
At first I thought the short, dark haired woman with a white name tag on her chest coincidentally ended up in the same three isles as myself. So I just kept searching for ingredients for the cake I was planning to make. I smiled and said hello as she turned her red face toward the shelves before her and began straightening the already aligned boxes of cake mix.
I went to the opposite end of the store to grab a bag of Grippos, the last item on my list, and there she was again, a few paces behind me. She was following me. Me, an honor roll student who has been recognized on many occasions as a leader within the school and community. Me, a pastor's daughter that has never had so much as a detention after 11 and a half years of schooling. Me, a black girl with an afro, a tote bag and hands full of merchandise. Slowly, I put the green carton of medium-sized eggs and everything else in my hands, in the refrigerator nearest to me and walked in the most direct path out of the door.
My car seemed miles from the exit. I couldn't run or else they would be even more suspicious. I couldn't cry or else more attention would be drawn to me. The door of my car clicked unlocked and I slid into my seat. My brown eyes caught a glimpse of a flushed face in the rearview mirror and I could no longer contain myself. I was confused, infuriated and fearful all at once. What did they see in me? What did I do to make them dubious? My fingers dialed my parents' phone number and with a broken voice my mouth recounted the last 10 minutes to them. Hearing my shattered heart, my mom spoke softly, "Come home baby."
The six minute drive back to my house happened in slow motion. When my car finally pulled into the driveway and I convinced myself to walk inside, my mom met my discouraged self at the door with a tight hug that lasted a little longer than usual. She wasn't surprised by my encounter and reminded me that although this type of interaction was bound to happen every so often, I shouldn't become cynical; not every white is racist. I was to be glad I made it home safely.
"Home." I thought I was home. I was at my neighborhood grocer amongst classmates and fellow community members. Prior to that day I would have argued that a home isn't confined to the place one rests her head at night, but that home is where comfort and a sense of belonging is found. Well, if the latter defines a home, I am rarely there.
At first I thought the short, dark haired woman with a white name tag on her chest coincidentally ended up in the same three isles as myself. So I just kept searching for ingredients for the cake I was planning to make. I smiled and said hello as she turned her red face toward the shelves before her and began straightening the already aligned boxes of cake mix.
I went to the opposite end of the store to grab a bag of Grippos, the last item on my list, and there she was again, a few paces behind me. She was following me. Me, an honor roll student who has been recognized on many occasions as a leader within the school and community. Me, a pastor's daughter that has never had so much as a detention after 11 and a half years of schooling. Me, a black girl with an afro, a tote bag and hands full of merchandise. Slowly, I put the green carton of medium-sized eggs and everything else in my hands, in the refrigerator nearest to me and walked in the most direct path out of the door.
My car seemed miles from the exit. I couldn't run or else they would be even more suspicious. I couldn't cry or else more attention would be drawn to me. The door of my car clicked unlocked and I slid into my seat. My brown eyes caught a glimpse of a flushed face in the rearview mirror and I could no longer contain myself. I was confused, infuriated and fearful all at once. What did they see in me? What did I do to make them dubious? My fingers dialed my parents' phone number and with a broken voice my mouth recounted the last 10 minutes to them. Hearing my shattered heart, my mom spoke softly, "Come home baby."
The six minute drive back to my house happened in slow motion. When my car finally pulled into the driveway and I convinced myself to walk inside, my mom met my discouraged self at the door with a tight hug that lasted a little longer than usual. She wasn't surprised by my encounter and reminded me that although this type of interaction was bound to happen every so often, I shouldn't become cynical; not every white is racist. I was to be glad I made it home safely.
"Home." I thought I was home. I was at my neighborhood grocer amongst classmates and fellow community members. Prior to that day I would have argued that a home isn't confined to the place one rests her head at night, but that home is where comfort and a sense of belonging is found. Well, if the latter defines a home, I am rarely there.