Why acting "White" is ridiculous

Today I'm going to take a bit of a different approach on this blog. Rather than just give you a rundown on what's been happening in my life, I'm going to talk about an issue that's bothered me basically since I was old enough to become aware of it.

I am not like the stereotypical black girls that you see on television. I am terrible at speaking in ebonics (and you really don't want to hear me try). I can't dance, but I will anyway. I'm not from the inner city of anywhere. I don't have a good-for-nothing absent father. I am a nerdy bibliophile from the Midwestern suburbs and I'm damn proud of it. However, there are many times when it seems like my peers - of all colors - are bent on making me realize how I don't conform to what they think I'm supposed to be.

"You know, if someone only heard your voice over the phone, they would never know you were black."
"I mean, no offense or anything, but you do act pretty white."
"You're not really black."

Do tell me more about how the color of my skin is invalidated because of my personality.

When one looks at my background, it's pretty obvious why I don't fit any of the stereotypes people hold. Because my father is a doctor and I'm from a two-parent household - another stereotype busted - I come from an affluent family. The Illinois suburbs where I'm from consist of mostly white people. I attended private school through eighth grade and was usually the only claim to diversity my school had. From 5-7th grade, my friend Trinity and I were the only two black people in the entire grade. It makes sense that my core friend group was mostly white - white was the only thing around me. And while my immediate family and godparents were all black, all of them were people that spoke and acted like me. I was a dreamy kid, but I could read people. I saw how they were acting, heard how they spoke, and I imitated it. Eventually, that became a core part of who I was.

Even then, when I was young, I saw the portrayals of how black people were 'supposed' to be on television. I was hyper-aware of the fact that I didn't fit that mold, and it bothered me. These were the only people that looked like me on television - was that the way that I was supposed to act? Was there something wrong about me because I didn't act this way?

When I hit high school, it was made obvious to me that according to both white and black people, apparently, there was.

Public high school was the first time in my life that there was actually a substantial population of black people at the school I attended. Even though I was then able to surround myself with black people, my core friend group remained mostly white. The reason why was simple - that's who I was most comfortable with. The majority of the other black girls at school never ceased to point out how I didn't speak like them, that I acted too 'proper,' that I was too white to be black - that I did not match their idea of 'blackness'.

I got used to snickers and rolled eyes when I spoke or didn't understand a reference they made. After my freshman year, I learned to avoid saying anything in front of them, because I knew that the moment I did, my voice and opinion would be ridiculed. I didn't understand why I was being made fun of - I was black just like they were. How, then, was I acting white when all I was doing was being myself? If I was black, shouldn't the way I was acting be called acting 'black,' too?

The same label of 'other' was placed on me by my white peers as well, but always in a more subtle way and usually with no ill-intentions - though they would never understand the negative effect their words had. Someone would remark that they didn't know any black people, and when I pointed out that they knew me, the response would be, "Well, yeah, but you're not really black." Innocent conversations would leave me out - my white friends could try out hairstyles on each other or share makeup or talk about tanning. None of those hairstyles would work with my curls, their makeup would have looked absolutely ridiculous on my skin, and there was no way that I needed to get any darker. The rise of social media already pointed out to me with every group picture that I was the lone dark face among my friends.

Prom 2011, exhibit A - gee, I wonder which one is me?

Worse were conversations where people would somehow 'forget' I was black. I still remember vividly one break during a shift at the water-park where I was a lifeguard. Normally, people sat quietly around the table for their ten minute break and ate a snack or refilled their water bottles. This time, however, several of the other lifeguards were complaining about how black people couldn't swim and always had to be saved. I stared at them, wide-eyed, waiting for them to remember that I was sitting there - but they never did. "I'm right here!" I finally said incredulously. "Clearly black people can swim since I became a lifeguard."

There was an awkward silence filled only by the buzzing of the air conditioning unit.

"Well, yeah," said one of them, leaning against the wall and giving me a pitying look, "but you're not really black, are you?"

Eventually, I understood the place society had given me - I was too black to be white and too white to be black. What I didn't understand was where that left me.

I didn't become truly comfortable with the balance between who I was and who society expected me to be until I went away to college. Immediately, during the first week, I found other girls like me - the token black girls in their friend groups who were made fun of for being too white, the Oreos.

Tokens unite.

While I had been loved and accepted by my friends from home, who are absolutely wonderful people, it was with this new group of friends that I finally felt understood. It made me realize that there was another way to act 'black' - our way. Then my thoughts went one step further - why on earth did we label the way people acted with color, and why was the way to act 'black' so constricted?

There's more than one way to "act white," to use that flawed terminology. You can be a valley girl or a punk. You can be a skater or a prep. You can be a redneck or a city slicker. You can be a nerd. You can be a jock. The possibilities of what society considers 'white' are endless.

Black people are not allowed this same privilege. There are only two ways to 'act black' according to mainstream America. One is to buy into the gangster culture that is performed on televisions and radios everyday. The other is to fit into the idea of the "good, churchgoing black folk," the lens that Hollywood uses when it attempts to prove that it can portray black people positively.

If you don't fit into either of those two categories, which many people don't, congratulations - you have just been labeled as white. Your skin color and the prejudices that come with it are irrelevant. The racism you will still inevitably experience is irrelevant. Your family history and personal culture - irrelevant. You are not really black. You do not fit neatly into the box.

These categories aren't just limited, they're demeaning. For example, they imply that to be articulate and use the accepted grammatical structure of English is incompatible with blackness - this is a solely white characteristic. "White" encompasses the majority of ways that people can act, as if those with light skin have a monopoly on all of the ways to be. "Acting white" erases not just black culture, but all minority cultures that are just as present in the United States.

It has taken me twenty years, but I'm finally able to be happy outside of the box society created for me. People still attempt to force me to fit their perceptions - just two weeks ago I got the "You're a very white person" comment from someone when he was told that no, I cannot twerk, and when I say I'm from outside Saint Louis, the stock response from people who know the area, is "Oh, East Saint Louis?" Although those comments annoy me to no end, they don't make me feel uneasy anymore.

I am who I am. I am my own version of black. And anyone who can't grasp that can get out of my way.