Most people find it difficult to accept me as Black. I listen to alternative rock, I watch Sundance films, and I live in a nice house smack in the center of middle-class suburbia. It’s pretty easy to see that I do not fit into the average Black stereotype.
I grew up in a Haitian household in the middle of a well-off, white neighborhood, and I attended predominantly white Catholic schools for fourteen long years. So of course I grew accustomed to my peers criticizing me for not being “Black enough.” I eventually learned that these people had a very narrow-minded view of race. Many of my peers were the sort of people who thought being Black meant being first in line to see Tyler Perry’s new Madea movie and living in the rough part of town. They thought being Black meant listening to rap day and night, getting into trouble, and embodying a perpetual state of so-called ratchetness. They thought being Black meant abiding by these stereotypes, and because I did not, my behavior was deemed whitewashed. I usually brushed off these assumptions and went about my day, but it soon became too difficult for me to do so, especially when my peers inadvertently attributed my positive qualities, such as my intelligence, to my apparent inner-whiteness.
Throughout high school I was always the only Black girl, and with the exception of two classes during my four years, I was the only Black student in my honors and AP classes. It was never too much of an issue; by then I was accustomed to being a Black face in a white space and usually paid no mind to how I did not fit in phenotypically. One day, while eating lunch with some of my friends, I commented on how I was usually the only Black student in class. One of my friends then responded, “Well, you’re not like the other Black kids here. I mean … you’re not loud or disruptive in class and you’re smart … you’re an Oreo.” I was shocked. “What the hell makes me white? I’m smart? That’s bull. Black people aren’t stupid, you know?” My friend told me to calm down, and said he didn’t understand why I was getting so upset. He said I was different. Why should I complain? He thought he was complimenting me.
To my surprise, I actually questioned if he was right. Why should I complain? I mean, we live in a world where white is a top commodity, and everything else only leads to some sort of disadvantage. So shouldn’t it be easier to be labeled as white? Shouldn’t I be elated when someone pats me on the back and laughs, saying, “Michelle, you’re such an Oreo?” I wish I could have just accepted it and moved on, but those words hurt. I did not want my behavior to be labeled as white. I did not ask for it. I did not want to forget who I really was and live an internal lie just to feel as though I belonged in society’s in-crowd.
I “complained” because he and almost everyone else around me labeled me as white. They said I was an exception to their perceptions of Blacks – I’m smart, I “talk right,” I’m not loud or uncivilized or “ghetto fabulous.” I was their beloved Oreo. To this day these old friends hold these stereotypes as truth and cast me as some sort of anomaly because, in their minds, I just can’t be Black. And so they would disregard my race unless it was the butt of some joke or microaggression. They would turn off the lights and ask, “Oh, where did Michelle go,” and when I was venting my frustrations they would warn, “Watch out there, Michelle! Your Black side is coming out,” and jokingly call me an “angry Black woman.”
On the other hand, it probably never dawned on them how much more important first impressions with administrators and college interviews were for me because I constantly had to fend off the negative perceptions of Black women that are instilled in our country. They probably never considered the fact that I had to work so much harder than them in order to be seen as remotely close to their equal. They will never know how many times I had to suppress my opinions on touchy topics, because if I expressed them freely, I would be judged more harshly than they would have, because the color of my voice is seen as invalid and disruptive in our society. No, they would forget it all and claim me as one of their own when it suited them.
Of course, several of my classmates never forgot to mention my race when I got into better colleges than the ones they had been accepted to. In those moments, I was just another undeserving Black kid who could accredit her success to affirmative action. In their minds I could never just be “smart.” I was always smart for a Black girl. Just another Ivy League diversity token. So how can they possibly label me as white and discredit my people, especially when I can never possess the privilege of being white like them?
I cannot completely blame nor hate these old friends and classmates for their misconstrued beliefs. It’s not like they are a despicable gang of racists. They are just people, and all of us, regardless of race, are vulnerable to conforming to some of society’s institutionalized, white supremacist ideologies. Somewhere down the line society failed them, they did not miseducate themselves. Society taught them to disvalue Black and honor white through racially-charged news reports on crime, fashion and entertainment practices that misappropriate Black culture, and magazine covers that constantly display white beauty only. They are constantly taught that in this world, white is right and Black is inferior. Society only attempts to accept Black people when they “act white,” and even then we are not fully accepted because our skin blinds them from truly seeing who we are and the great we are capable of doing. Instead, we are treated unequally because, to them, our blackness is distasteful. Black is never simply beautiful, or purely intelligent, or truly deserving of success.
Nonetheless, the fact that my friends were constantly bombarded with these messages is only an explanation for their behavior. It is not an excuse.
My experience was challenging, but what keeps me holding on to these memories is regret. I regret backing down when I should have asserted what was right. At times, I allowed them to parade around masking microaggressions as harmless jokes and I did not voice my discomfort. I silenced myself out of fear of not belonging in their group of friends. I thought I was required to be cool with all of it. I would smirk when they turned the lights out and said I disappeared, because wasn’t it in my best interests to just play along? And I playfully mentioned my race when discussing what colleges had accepted me, because wasn’t it better if I said it before they had the chance to? I was naive and I doubted the meaning of the frustration I constantly felt.
My experience is far from unique. I think a lot of us who continually find ourselves in white-dominated spaces experience wanting to belong but never being able to. There is almost always some sort of tension between us and our white peers in regards to race. However, we should not allow our race to be washed away at their convenience. It may be easier to stay silent and avoid the risk of being ousted. But we cannot ignore our anger because it will never go away if it is never spoken.
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