Mahogany Misfit

The other day, my very good White friend and I were discussing the infamous Valley Swim Club incident that occurred last month. While I was undoubtedly pissed about it, I didn't express ANY shock at all. She, on the other hand, expressed complete dismay and utter disbelief over the fact that these young Black children could be discriminated against so brazenly, and at such a tender age.

Her dismay was genuine but I couldn't help but wonder why the hell she was so surprised...do White people think minorities don't begin experiencing racism until they're "old enough to handle it"? That childhood insulates you from racist sentiments and attitudes?

I had to relay a few incidents that I endured at a young age to her, one of which I thought I'd share here...

At age 6, I started elementary school. Like all of the other schools I've gone to, it was predominately Caucasian.

During recess on the very first day, I made fast friends with a girl named Becca...we bonded over the fact that we both seemed to have a Punky Brewster fetish.

*Note- at this age I thought I was the Black Punky Brewster and wore a bandana around my knee like she did on her show. I also liked to wear mismatched shoes (a red one and a purple one) like Punky, but my mom wouldn't allow me to wear that mess to school.*

Anyway, Becca and I were both Punky Brewster addicts and also discovered a mutual love for "Jem and The Holograms", and "My Little Pony", so you KNOW our soul mate status was all but sealed at that point.

We branded ourselves "bestest friends" and spent the next several days joined at the hip.

Usually my mom arrived to pick me up before Becca's mom arrived to pick her up, but one afternoon this happened in reverse.

As Becca and I stood on the grass together, she spotted her mother running across the lot from her car.

"What are you doing Rebecca?", she yelled as she got closer. (I remember this like it was yesterday.)

The look on her mother's face was hugely frightening to me...she was enraged.

I wasn't sure what we had done wrong. Hell, we were just standing there talking. My 6-year-old brain was befuddled.

Once she was directly in front of us, Becca's mom SNATCHED her by the arm and seethed "You do NOT talk to Niggers, do you hear me???"

Being six and all, I had no idea what a "nigger" was, but it sounded BAD. And since I was the only one there, she had to have meant me.

I was determined to get to the bottom of this so the only thing left to do was ask my mom.

When she picked me up and asked how my day was, the first words out of my mouth were "Mommy, am I a 'nigger'? What IS that?"

{sigh}

The expression on my mother's face at that moment was one I'll never forget. First, a look of shock and then full blown anguish..

She crumbled into tears before asking me,"Who told you that?"

Seeing my mom cry made ME cry. I hadn't meant to upset her. In between sobs I told her what Becca's mother said.

She cried and drove wordlessly for a while. I didn't want to break the silence by asking more upsetting questions so I stayed silent as well.

"You are NOT a nigger.", she said after a few quiet moments, turning to look at me in the passenger seat.

I wanted desperately to ask what a "nigger" was, but before I had the chance she told me that when Daddy came home later that evening we would all talk about it.

Later that night, my parents explained to me, as best you can to a small child, what comes with being Black. "Some people won't like you simply because you're Black....some mommies and daddies don't want their kids playing with Black kids...You are not a "nigger" and you are to say that to anyone who calls you that name...."

Totally devastating to me to say the least. I was always aware that I was "Black", but now I was aware that being Black meant something bad to a lot of people. Now I was aware that I might have less friends because I was Black. Now I was acutely aware of my skin and how different I was from most everyone at school and in my neighborhood.

Welcome to your world little Black girl...

I don't think my experience is "special" or out of the ordinary amongst minorities either.

You discover (usually in a brutal, heartbreaking way) at a young age that you will be hated for your skin color...something you have absolutely no control over.

You encounter racism before you can even write your name in cursive.

You become aware in childhood, that you are thought of as bad and toxic because of your coloring.

This isn't new to us so the fact that non-minorities are surprised by this story, SURPRISES ME!

In any case, that first encounter with racism seems to create a snowball effect doesn't it? After this experience, there were countless others. Seemingly concurrently. I wasn't allowed to play with or even enter the homes of countless white children at my school and in my neighborhood, while my white peers were welcomed into those same homes with open arms.

For minorities, once you're school aged and less tied to your home and your family, the outside world revels itself and it's sentiments toward you in a very real way.

And it continues for the rest of your life.

Sometimes it's subtle, sometimes it's blatant.

Oh well...one funny thing about this story, is that to this day, my mother, who is a professional, classy, soft spoken, sophisticated woman (who rarely even swears- making her the polar opposite of me in that regard), talks about "kicking Becca's mom's ass".

Haaaahahahaha.

"Kick her ass."

LOL Mom!

*If you knew her, this would be wildly hysterical to you too, trust me.*

Whew funny...anyhow back to the point of the post: I just have to say, in summary, it must be nice to have the luxury of believing that little minority kids don't experience soul-shattering, disheartening acts of racism before they're old enough to understand the dynamics of race. 

Unfortunately, that luxury is not reality to many of us and we have to realize it comes from a place of enormous privilege. 

When I told my friend this story and a few others, she wanted to cry. She was stunned that I didn't seem "bitter" or "angry". She said it seemed as if I had "gotten over" it very well.

Well, just because I don't act out in stereotypical "angry Black woman" fashion,  doesn't mean I'm not upset over enduring a lifetime of this fucking racist bullshit, but it's something you cope with because there really aren't many other choices.

I wouldn't say I'm "over it" at all.

Personally speaking, I don't think you ever fully "get over" this kind of shit. The wounds are profoundly deep and are symbolically re-opened with every new encounter with racism...which sadly are NOT few and far between.

How one would manage to just "get over" all of that is not known to me.

If there are secrets to "getting over" being called a nigger in the first grade, by a full grown ADULT, feel free to share them with me in the comments section because I'm at a loss.