![]() She told me that because of her alternative interests, namely metal music, she was accused of “acting white” by her high school peers. For me she represents the epitome of black cool and I envy that she grew up around black people her entire life. Recently I was hanging out with a friend who was born and raised in Harlem. By that time I had already accepted racism as a staple of life, but the thought of possibly being rejected by people that looked like me was too much to bear. I was more comfortable with the thought of being around white people, where my blackness was for sure going to be denigrated in one form or another, than I was with the thought of being around my own people. I never applied to any historical black colleges because I thought everyone would make fun of me because my black wasn’t cool enough. Ain’t that some shit?Īnd it even affected my college experience. This is the clusterfuck of all realizations: Racism made me uncomfortable around my own people. Somewhere along the way I started believing that I wasn’t black enough, whatever that meant. And I was black enough to be accused of stealing during shopping trips.īut if you hear something enough, it can seep into your unconscious and start to guide your decisions. I always brushed off those comments, because I knew I was black enough to be called “nigger.” I was black enough that white people stared at me everywhere I went in those lily-white towns. I’ve long known that, for many white people, being black is simply checking off a list of well-worn stereotypes. It didn’t surprise me that Rachel Dolezal truly thought she was black. “You’re not black, you can’t even dance!” “I know so many white girls that can gangsta walk better than you.” “I’m blacker than you because I know more Tupac songs than you.” But other times it was meant so white people, whose sole interaction with black culture came through the distorted lens of racist media, could assert their own twisted version of blackness over me. Sometimes it was phrased as a “compliment,” meaning you’re one of the good black people. If there was one phrase I heard more than “nigger,” it was “You’re not black.” Talk about irony. Like most psychological problems, it all began in my childhood, specifically the eight years I spent living in all white towns in rural Wisconsin. Where does this discomfort come from? And why do I think of Blackness as a test I am doomed to fail? Every time I walk into the black barbershop where she does hair, I feel like I’m going to be “found out.” In my mind when other black people see me, they’re thinking: “She may look black, but she’s not black black, if you know what I mean.” This is a peculiar realization being that I am also a black person.īut you see, my stylist embodies a certain Harlem black cool I’ve always been told (by white people) that I lack. How could I have been so oblivious to an obvious cultural norm? This set off a mini existential crisis where I came to one of my greatest philosophical epiphanies: I’m uncomfortable around black people. I replayed the scene over and over in my head during my walk to the train. I had revealed myself to be the Carlton to her Fresh Prince. I tried to recover with some weird amalgamation of a fist bump and a high five, but the damage had been done. By the time I realized that this was the handshake, it was too late. In what was most likely the longest three seconds in the universe, I stared at her hand in befuddlement, trying to figure out what she was doing. I made a funny quip, and she extended her palm so that we could partake in the standard Black American handshake. My hair stylist and I were chatting while she was taking a break from retightening my locs.
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