I am doubted a lot. Not because I try to convince people that global warming doesn’t exist or that the Pope is just a myth or that cancer can be healed through sheer willpower.
No, I am not doubted because I am incapable of operating Google. Instead, I am doubted because I tell people that I am black as I live in white skin.
Genetics are a funny thing, it would seem, as neither my twin sister nor I bear any telling of our African-American heritage. It’s not as if it’s distant and therefore faded — my father is black. However, because there are people in today’s age like Rachel Dolezal trying to blur the lines between identity and heritage, my life only gets harder on the explanation front.
I guess it started when I was kid. Most of the children I went to school with — and sometimes even the teachers — wouldn’t believe me when I told them I was half-black, and I honestly couldn’t blame them. To every stranger, my heritage appears no more intricate than Caucasian. I’d have to bring in physical proof to fully convince them.
In high school, I had to become comfortable with using my heritage to my advantage, especially when exam forms began circulating, asking all of the common demographic questions required to register.
In most cases, the paperwork would only let me select one race. In turn, my mom told me to stop filling in the bubble marked “Caucasian” and to select “Other,” and fill in all of my races if allowed. I was to honor the fact that I was African-American, and that was that. Besides, high scorers in certain demographics often received scholarship money, which was something my family was always gunning for.
When I was a senior, I received an AP Scholar Award from the College Board specifically honoring African-American students who scored exemplarily on their exams. I was one of three people in my entire school to get one, and it was such a proud moment for me to hear my name read honorably on the school announcements, even if no one was listening.
That pride disappeared, though, when a friend told me that a girl in her first period class, who had known me for years, turned to her and said, “She doesn’t even count. She didn’t deserve that award. It should have gone to a real black kid.” They say it’s only sticks and stones that break bones, but that one still hurt.
Yet somehow I understood where she was coming from. There is a hierarchy that I had to be schooled in. Although it is not often spoken about, there is a commonly held belief among the African-American community that the lighter the skin of a black person, the better off he or she will be.
Not only are those with lighter skin seen as more attractive, but because they have “whiter” features, they will be treated differently, and often better, by the white community than their darker counterparts. Being as white as I am and still being able to use the term “African-American” to accurately describe myself can be upsetting to a lot of people who don’t have the white privilege that I genetically inherited.
It really comes down to one question: If I have everything I need by simply being a white kid, why give it up just for namesake?
My answer, simply put, is because that is not who I am. I am not white. I am not black. I am a faded combination of the two, and it gets progressively harder every single day to hold onto that fact, to feel like I deserve to say that.
For instance, in April, I was awarded the incredible opportunity to compete at the NAACP’s ACT-SO National Convention, an intimidatingly large awards program for talented black youth, after receiving the regional gold medal from the Baltimore County branch of the nation’s oldest civil rights organization. Feeling the weight of that medal around my neck meant that this July my personal essay would move on to be considered against potentially hundreds of others. I was scared.
As the eight gold medalists and our chaperones left Baltimore for Philadelphia, that fear began to expand past simple nerves. Going into a competition specifically for enhancing the future of African-American youth and being as white as I am did not seem to end well in my head.
Would I be looked at with dismay for thinking I deserve an award specifically for a black person, when I am outwardly so white? Does my birth-given white privilege cancel out my rights factored into my unapparent heritage? Will my being so obviously white affect the way I am considered for an award?
Upon my arrival to the opening ceremony, I figured out very quickly that I was to be the minority of the minority for the weekend. After all, I was one of maybe three very light-skinned African-Americans in a room full of 600 African-American kids.
We arrived on a Thursday, and the competition itself was Friday. That meant I had one night to stop convincing myself that I didn’t deserve to be there, because that negativity would begin to come through my mouth, my hands, my shaking legs, if I didn’t learn to get a grip. I pride myself on my professionalism; it was not the time to let that reputation down. So I went to sleep and tried to get over it. I had a really pleasant fight with my insomnia that night — it felt like old times.
Friday’s competition began at what felt like the crack of dawn. Truth was, I was so used to sleeping in that 8 a.m. felt like four hours too early. In a mad rush to throw myself together, find food and make the walk from the Marriott to the hotel where the actual competition was, I somehow began to forget about my fears. Distraction in the shape of caffeine is a beautiful beast, it would seem.
That changed as soon as I entered the holding room and noticed whom my competition was. I was so nervous when the judge assistants came to collect me and the three competitors ahead of me that I thought I’d vomit, and I haven’t done that since I was three (I’m proud of that too, as you can probably imagine). I was so sure that those judges would look at me as I entered the room and wonder who I thought I was, thinking I could come in there, defend my work and walk away with an award I didn’t deserve. They would disregard me.
When the assistant turned to me and said, “They’re ready for you,” I could taste something sour in the back of my throat. This was it. This was the moment that all of those kids who didn’t want to count me wanted me to experience.
I pushed open that heavy door and suddenly felt … nothing. No mad rush of embarrassment or fear came to me, because behind the long table in front of me were the judges, three beautiful African-American women, and they were beaming. There were no foul looks, no foul exchanges. That sour taste resided, and my hands started to shake on a level I was accustomed to. I was there, I was black only in blood and paperwork, and they understood. I’d been waiting for those five minutes with them my whole life.
It’s fair to say I felt quite stupid after all was said and done for the competition. It didn’t matter that I was the only white girl up there on stage collecting her award; I had earned it, and everyone understood. After 17 years of trying to explain myself, holding that little bronze disc in my hand reminded me that the world is changing and that I wouldn’t have to defend myself much longer. Individuals like Dolezal might be taking a step in the wrong direction in the fight for racial equality, but I like to think I am making the hike up the right hill. I just hope I have a support group behind me in shoes good enough to keep up, because I’m not slowing down.
