Wednesday, September 5, 2007

What does it mean to be "black enough?"

Today I found myself at the receiving end of a racial slur. It wasn't the first from this person, but because it was someone that I care deeply about, and the opening salvos appeared to have been said in jest, I did my best to let it slide. But today was different. The remark was not said jokingly, in fact it dripped with disgust, and it cut like a knife.

My feelings for this person not withstanding, the fact that the derogatory comment came from someone who is also black made it that much more painful. It brought back a string of memories from my teenage years growing up in a big city in the 70's.

I have no idea of the racial composition of the people who read this blog, but I'm sure what I need to say is going to offend someone. So, I'm imploring you, if you think you're going to get upset by reading this, PLEASE STOP. If race is an issue for you, as it is for many whether they can admit it or not, do us both a favor and move on. You know who you are and nothing I write about here will change you one bit. And believe it or not, I'm not trying to change anyone's opinions about anything, I just need to vent and since this is my blog, I've decided to do that here. If you're still with me, I'll proceed to my point.

I am what the Census Bureau would define as an "African-American." If you were to look at me, you'd assume that I was of African descent. But you might also assume that I have Caucasian ancestry as well. On both counts you would be correct. Technically speaking, I think it's fair to say that with this country's history of slavery, there are probably very few "African-Americans" born here who do not have at least some white blood coursing through their bloodline. I've never liked the term "African-American" because I don't think it clearly articulates who I am. Nor do I like the term "black" because that is not the color of my skin. But since I can't find a more suitable term at the moment, those old standards will have to do for now.

I was fortunate to have been born into a family of well-educated professionals. Both of my parents were present and both had good-paying jobs. We lived in a very nice neighborhood that most would consider upper-middle-class. At that time, I'd say ours was one of the few truly integrated neighborhoods in the city where I grew up. Everyone was educated, everyone was doing well, most had very nice homes, the children played together and went to school together. For the most part, race was a non-issue.

It wasn't until I went to a public middle-school in a different part of town that I began to realize that something was wrong. There were only a handful of white students in the school, and almost all of them had gone to the same elementary school that I did, so they were already my friends. The thought of tossing those friendships aside now that we'd moved to another school never occurred to me. But apparently it occurred to a lot of other people. I used to leave school in tears after seeing how my white friends had been treated by the black kids. The things I saw and heard just didn't reconcile with all I thought I knew about discrimination - basically that it was about white people hating black people. What I saw was the opposite and I just didn't understand why my white friends didn't fit in, or why I didn't either.

Somewhere between 7th and 8th grade, the answer became clear. I was told, on several occasions, that I would never fit in anywhere. More specifically, I believe the exact words were "You're too black to be white and you're too white to be black." I'd forgotten about those hurtful words, until recently.

My memories of this painful time in my life were reignited as Barack Obama's presidential campaign began to gather steam. Questions about whether Obama is "black enough" circulated in newspapers and cable news shows. And because the question appeared to be originating among the African-American community, many seemed honestly confused about what this question really meant. Sadly, I was not one of them, and neither was Nancy Giles when she wrote an essay in response to the question. But that association wasn't quite close enough to home, so I had the opportunity to deal with again on a much more personal level today.

While I try my best to avoid using the "race card" and I detest those who play it when it clearly is not a factor, I'd be hopelessly niave to suggest that we've reached the point of total racial equality. As much as I'd love to believe that we live in a color-blind society, we're simply not there yet - not as a whole. But I sincerely believe that there are people, individuals, who are color-blind and I'm proud to be able to call some of them my friends.

Having fought my way into (and out of) corporate America as a young, black woman in what had traditionally been an old, white male industry, I have seen more than my fair share of institutional racism. But although I will never condone it, part of me understood it. I knew who my adversaries were, I knew the rules of the game, and I knew that the stereotypes and assumptions that they made about me had nothing to do with me personally. They didn't look at me and see me, the person, they saw me, a black woman, who also happened to be well-educated, well-dressed, well-schooled, articulate, competent and in many cases, a legitimate professional threat. And when all else failed, I knew that there were others who were in this same boat with me and together we'd find a way to forge ahead.

But as painful, degrading and humiliating as institutional racism was (and is), it pales in comparison to personal racism. Why? Because when a person who knows me issues a racial slur, I can't let them off the hook by saying that if they knew me - the real me - they wouldn't say or believe those things. Someone who knows me well is supposed to know my integrity, my background, my world view, my character, my heart. And when a person can skip over all of those things and say words that are the grown-up equivalent of those words I heard in middle school... well, that breaks my heart.

But I'm a big believer in the truth, even when it hurts. I learned some truths about that person today. And here's my truth:


  • I can't change the color of my skin or my eyes any more than I can change the shape of my nose and my lips.

  • I didn't choose the family I was born into or the neighborhood my parents chose to raise their children in.

  • I can't help that I was born with a higher-than-average IQ and was blessed to be surrounded by family and other adult mentors who saw my potential and challenged me to excel academically.

  • I will not apologize for graduating first in my class from high school or for getting both college and graduate degrees.

  • I will not apologize for loving the English language and working hard at being able to speak and write articulately.

  • I will not pretend that I like, or can even decipher, much less comprehend or relate to the lyrics of rap, hip-hop, gangsta or any other "urban" music. I happen to prefer light jazz, contemporary Christian, salsa, county and some classical music.

  • I will not be a closet Republican, pretending to be a Democrat because that's what all black people are "supposed" to be. I was born and raised a Democrat, and have shamed my family in this regard, but am thankful that I live in a country where I can research the issues, decide where I stand, and vote accordingly.

  • I absolutely will not make excuses for ignorance, laziness or unacceptable behavior, regardless of the race of the perpetrator.

  • I will not deny those people who have been kind, generous, compassionate, and loving towards me, accepting me as I am, regardless of whether we share the same skin color or not.

So if you're still wondering if I'm black enough, the answer is that if you are one of the many misguided souls (either white or black) who believe that black people are "supposed" to look, act or feel a certain way, and you expect me to speak differently, look differently, think differently, vote differently, dress differently, date differently, or treat my friends, colleagues and strangers any differently than I do, than I guess the answer is "No." But please don't feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for you.

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