I’m black, stop trying to tell me otherwise

I speak two foreign languages and am majoring in both of them, as well as in business. I’m working on publishing my first novel. I’ve studied abroad and have plans to do so again. I’ve learned to play three separate instruments over the past few years and am learning my fourth here in college. Most people think of me as white, but in reality I am an African American woman – raised in the Chicago area for half my life and in Memphis for the other half.

I don’t just think, I know I am black: I identify with major aspects of African American culture and with aspects of “pop culture” which are often perceived as “white” culture. But it’s hard to justify this self-perception with the way others see me. I have had teachers and classmates who view me as a darker-skinned white. They have actually told me, “You’re not black. So and so (who is actually not black) is blacker than you. You’re white – just accept it.”

I was only eleven years old the first time such a comment was made to me. And that was by a black classmate.

I know none of these individuals meant their words in a harmful, derogatory, or generally negative way – many of them delivered their lines in a semi-joking manner. This implied their belief that I knew where they were coming from with this, and that I, too, believed it deep down and just wasn’t admitting it. I know their racist remarks were made without ill intent and without the realization it was racist. Their words were not some powerful statement on race, not coming from a racist position, nor a prejudiced viewpoint… and yet, offense was taken.

Since becoming an undergraduate student here at Pitt, I’ve had positive encounters with members of my own race where a single negative comment ruined the experience for me. Multiple African American people I either work with or have classes with have questioned my hair. I tend to dye it in various tints of blonde, which turns my black hair anywhere from brunette to true blonde, depending on the tint used and the frequency of treatments. When I asked why she disapproved of the color, a black coworker actually said, “You’re not white.”

For me, her reaction was akin to what I’d expect from my parents for dyeing my hair purple or a neon color – not blonde, a naturally occurring hair color across the globe.

Back in senior high school, I was given various derogatory nicknames to highlight my “whiteness.” There was “sour cream,” because I was supposedly whiter than sour cream, “MJ,” because of Michael Jackson’s skin condition which changed his pigmentation, and even “Oreo,” because I’m “black on the outside, but white on the inside.”

To those of my own race, making such distinctions – separating me from the “us” crowd of blacks and into the “them” crowds of whites – was a way to rationalize the sometimes stark differences between my behavior and theirs in a manner that pigeonholed me into a known entity. By making me “white,” they found a way to accept that “I’m not truly black” while still finding a clear definition for me.

Although I’ve dealt with many such an occurrence with African American peers, it is particularly insulting to have a non-ethnic person question my African-American-ness, to tell me that I am not black, but rather white, and to separate me from my cultural background because of the way I speak, think, and carry myself. For them, this cultural stripping and reshaping justifies my existence and validates everything that makes me who I am, in terms and categories they recognize and hold dear.

The most recent example happened within the last couple weeks: When meeting with an advisor, I mentioned the novel I’ve written and am trying to publish. With positive concern for the marketability of the novel, the advisor asked, “Would a white teenaged girl want to read it?” It’s true that that demographic is the easiest to market toward for my particular genres, but the experience of having an old white man make such a query left me uncomfortable. My answer involved listing some of the aforementioned encounters, readily assuring him of the fact I’m perceived as white in reference to my speech, writing style, and even personality.

Having others question my racial identity – and even try to assign one to me, without regard to my self-identification – has created a dichotomy of self for me. On the one hand, I know I fit in with my Caucasian peers because we like the same artists, books, movies, music, etc. On the other hand, I sometimes wear my hair in French braids and corn rows, thoroughly enjoy the Madea movies and BET productions, and I have no qualms utilizing Ebonics when expressing myself.

I, myself, have come to question my racial identity. Whenever I pause and reflect on these experiences, I ask myself: Am I truly black? Should I listen to more rap? Should I change my fashion sense and taste in foods? Should I drop the leggings for booty shorts and the lattés for more Kool-Aid? Am I not representative enough of African American culture? What makes me black and what makes me white, both in my own eyes and in those of others?

At the end of the day, though, those questions are mine and mine alone to answer.