“We must break the glass, we must not hide our dignity, Defend your name and your destiny, Go! GO!”
-Diams
“Red and Yellow, Black and White, they are precious in His sight, Jesus loves the little children of the world”
-Unknown
“Like the herd of animals we are, we sniff warily at the strange one among us”
-Loren Eisley
For those who know me, I’m as common as they come. Millions of people on the planet share the exact same physical attributes as I and many times, I’ve met people with the exact same face as mine, which as anyone would assume, is a downright freaky and weird encounter. Sadly, I have long viewed my physical appearance as a curse as it has caused me to be constantly choked by the cruel tentacles of racism, most noticeably so by those of the same ethnic standing as myself. I am African-American, and neither one of my parents is bi-racial. Nonetheless, as is the case with most Americans, somewhere in generations past there was some serious racial/ethnic mixing going on with my family.
According to my maternal grandmother, her maternal great grandmother was a slave whose job it was to “Dance for the whitemens” on the plantation which held her captive. Consequently, her grandmother, who was born soon after the close of the Civil War, had straight blond hair, blue eyes, and snow white skin.
My father’s ancestry dances to the beat of a familiar American tune. Both his maternal and paternal great grandparents immigrated to the United States from Ireland in the late 1800’s. According to his accounts, no one in his bloodline was ever a slave but were immigrants as well from Africa. *DISCLAIMER: the country and accuracy of this story still pending, needless to say, I have my doubts. In any case, both my father’s parents were so Irish looking in their appearance, that at the time of my father’s birth, the hospital in all their wisdom deemed my father as “White” and to this day, his birth certificate says the same. My father however, contrary to his parents’ appearance, has dark skin and curly hair with luminous green eyes.
With all this crazy history running through my genetic pool, generations down from Africa, Europe, and the Americas, you get me, a blonde kinky haired, green eyed, porcelain skinned African-American. As a child, however, I was not raised to see color or race, only people. Consequently, it was not until my interactions with those outside of my family circle, that I came to know that people were not the same or equal. Humans in fact were all different because of their color (insert eye roll and annoyed sigh). For example, growing up, my family was one of two Black families that attended our predominately White Church. I would have never noticed if not for one Sunday, when a friend of mine asked me how come my father is a nigger but I’m white during Sunday School. I didn’t know what a nigger was, but I knew I didn’t like the sound of it. It was vile and obnoxious. At that moment I was enraptured by the sudden urge to prove that my father was not this ugly sounding thing. Hurt and anger erupted from my voice as I cried, “He’s not a nigger, he’s white just like me!” my friend’s simple response, “Well how come his skin is so dark?” Nigger, in my four year old mind, now had a definition: Bad. Repulsive. Dark Skin.
Fast forward twenty some odd years, not much has changed. Throughout elementary and high school, I was tormented by classmates because of my complexion. The school district to which I belonged had a majority of Black families. My classmates (predominately African-American), saw it fit to torture me to no end. Even if they had light skin, I had white skin, and that in itself was reason enough to hate me. Once, while walking home from school, one of my classmates pushed me into oncoming traffic because “that’s what my white butt gets” Another classmate during recess spit on me, because I was white. My braids were pulled because they were “too yellow”. I was told that teachers only liked me because I was white. As I entered high school, the harassment subsided, yet I was still subjected to such comments as, “Why don’t you get a tan” or “I wouldn’t mind dating you if you had just a little color” and my favorite, “You should dye your hair darker, maybe people wouldn’t assume you were stuck up if you tried to blend in a little bit more”. Of course I was voted my senior class’ “Teacher’s Pet”, shocked and slightly insulted, I couldn’t help but imagine that my classmates felt this way simply because of how I looked.
Present day, I have come to make the same false assumption, that as an adult, everyone will behave as such and that my advancement in life will be based solely on my desire to be driven by hard work and the wish to succeed. At this time, cue Mr. X, an African-American male , who as my boss for the past two years, tormented and insulted me on almost a daily basis until finally, I realized that my dreams expanded further then working under his absurdly harsh and misogynistic management style, and quit. From my second month of working for him until the very day I submitted my resignation, his hurtful and embarrassing comments concerning my work, my clothing, my weight, and my speaking skills mounted to a near nervous breakdown. For two years, I woke up in the morning crying and shaking out of fear due to his ill treatment.
My maiden attempt to quit was foiled when Mr. X’s boss convinced me that this was his first time hearing of my torment and it’s only fair to give him a chance to make it right. I conceded and continued to work, and at the suggestion of my therapist (yes, I had to go to therapy for this sick twisted crap), bit my tongue when I was wrongfully accused of a mistake, told how useless I was, or how much I made him sick. The harassment had gotten to such a point, that weekly, Mr. X would implicitly threaten my job, insult my work, and then double the amount of work that needed submission by week’s end. I was baffled; I could not understand how I worked so hard, only to be cut down and pulled up by the root almost systematically. I began to feel worthless. The attacks became so bad, that Mr. X, who needed me to translate and interpret French for him (keep in mind, he doesn’t speak a lick of French), would rise up to challenge what I wrote or said and in his ignorance, attempted to correct what I had done! All of my skills and assets, the things that I loved most about my capabilities slowly began to feel worthless to me. I walked around the office sullen and defeated thinking that even if I did leave my current job, who would want to hire someone who only produced rubbish.
At my lowest morale, I realized, with the help of family, friends and colleagues in the office, that Mr. X, who in his insecurity was jealous that someone as young as me and female was able to do his job, plus spoke French, an asset for the type of work that we did. After much consultation, and days of prayer on my part, I wrote my letter of resignation, and prepared quit. Convinced that an argument was going to ensue after I submitted my letter to Mr. X, I ran over every possible insult he could toss out at me. Even after mentally preparing myself for the big moment, I was not ready for what was about to be said.
After butchering my name, which I feel he did on purpose to further insult me, Mr. X stated the following:
“I feel that your leaving has more to do with your boss than your desire to go to school. As you have noticed, I was very harsh with you, but you need to realize, that as an African-American sister, these people only see one thing, you’re Black. So, every time you make a mistake, it looks twice as bad. And yes you speak well, and you do your job well, I honestly thought I could leave the department to you… but you’re still Black, and I just hope that I was able to help you see that. And yes you may be going back to school, but don’t think for once that your light skin and yellow hair are going to make anyone in your classes think any different of you, but with all the brow-beating you got from me, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle them just fine!”
As stated earlier, I am the same as millions of people on the earth. However, in this country, I am a mutant, a picture of what should never be. My face makes hatred manifest in the most supposedly “liberal” and “tolerant” of them all. So, should I change? Should I dye my yellow hair black? Should I tan myself and risk melanoma for acceptance? Should I learn Swahili and lock my hair to prove that I know I’m not white and that I embrace my African-American identity? Will this make everyone feel more comfortable? Certainly not! As a nail that sticks out, people who are uncomfortable with themselves, are always going to have the urge to hammer me, (and anyone else who is “different”), into the block of wood in which they feel I belong. I have come to the realization, that there ARE those, black, white, and polka dot, who just like me, see people, not color or culture. These are the people, who I surround myself with. These are the beautifully amazing people, who after others have hammered me down, will lift me up, and give me the courage to stand out boldly, unashamed of my looks, my identity, and my destiny. Thank you all, for reminding me, that I am human after all.
And to all you closet bigots, go suck a big fat….lemon.
