My first understanding of whiteness was: ew.
White people were annoying, unattractive, untalented, oblivious, bland. In Bridgeport, CT, as a rare white girl amongst mostly people of color, I hated my whiteness.
I could have embraced white culture, gone to Goodwill and bought some Abercrombie, chewed on bubble gum instead of Now and Laters, but I’d get ripped a new one, Wayne Brothers Style. If I went in the opposite way and started to roll my r’s and gel back my greasy bun, I’d get reamed for being a poser, an “uh-oh oreo”.
The last thing I wanted was get called out for trying too hard. To me, nothing was more painful than publicly attempting something, bearing your heart and soul, and being laughed at. So I just embraced being the quiet and polite white elephant in the room.
What my peers and I all understood, albeit unconsciously at the time, was that ultimately, white people had the power. When an old white man on my block told the black family that just moved in to go back to Africa, no one was surprised. In a sense, we kids were all jaded. We didn’t expect the presidents in our text books to be anything other than white men. We didn’t waste our breath questioning why most of our teachers were white or wondering where they lived. If we had any special guest speakers come in to talk to our school, they better bring food or else we’d demolish their confidence. We had this one substitute teacher who died her hair blonde one night and the next day, we called her “Sunshine” until she cried. Classical musicians would come perform for some sort of enrichment program, and all I remember is making fun of the way they jerked around when the music overtook them. Police were lazy, corrupt, racist—useless.
In accordance, I was bullied for my race, usually “playfully” but sometimes seriously. Strangers have approached me on my street and told me to go back to where I come from. More than once, friends have unprompted punched me straight in the face. I couldn’t complain, though. I didn’t want to be seen as the weak, annoying, or uncool white girl, so I didn’t complain, and quite honestly, if it happened now, I wouldn’t either.
Despite all this, my friendships were pure. I’ll never forget Amony Stancil standing up for me when a group of boys laughed at the baby food I had brought for lunch: “Shut up ‘cause you know it taste good!” Or staying up all night with Danaisha Wheeler talking about life, crying, laughing, and being perfectly prepubescent. Or Peggy Colas spending hours giving me corn rows and making me feel less lame about my bright red scalp and teary eyes.
With phenomenal gratitude, I remember my friends growing up. Their capacity for love and laughter astounds me. Even though I lived in the same neighborhood, attended the same schools, and drank the same water as my peers of color, the life-altering difference between us was obvious. Of course I was annoying: my skin was screaming.