Why Can’t I Be An Oreo?

Something I’ve always struggled with is feeling out of place. No matter where I am, I feel as though I don’t fit in for one reason or another.

I began to question myself when my Mother used to look at me in disgust or laugh in my face when she would walk in on me “being a white girl.”

Picture this: I had to be maybe 14 or 15 (I think) when Britney Spears’ Toxic came out and I’m in my bedroom trying to write on the calendar hanging near my door, jamming to this song. My Mom comes around the corner and laughs, then imitates my limited dance moves. “What are you doing?” I’m immediately embarrassed, so I say I’m just writing on my calendar and stop dancing.

“You’re so white… like oh my God,” my mother laughs at her impression of me and walks off.

I got that a lot. No, being called white or someone making fun of the way I speak isn’t the insulting part. It’s the part where I’m being made to think that I am doing something wrong… when I’m not. I was being taught that I should stick with my kind, don’t trust white people and immerse yourself in one culture, your own.

Maybe in your household every child is/was given the freedom to express themselves but that didn’t happen for me.

As a result, even as an adult, I became very unsure of myself.

But I now realize that I am just me.

A product of my environment, a collection of experiences, memories and cirmcustances I didn’t choose and I am the result of two people, whom I’m not sure were in love or not.

I am just me.

I know my history passed what was taught to me in school. I exist due to the suffering of many, many people of which I will never know their names but I know what they’ve done for me. I feel like my mother, my grandfather and other people in my life were so confused by me because I am the first one to not be angry. I am not mad at white people and that somehow makes me ignorant and I must want to be white.

I never understood why people would feel the need to tell me I’m not black… well, obviously I am and my black is beautiful. Or that I’m white or I talk white… what does that even mean?? I act like I got an education passed the 3rd grade? Was that suppose to be an insult?

I can listen to different music and still be a black woman, I can have friends of different ethnicities and still be a black woman, I can read novels that don’t pertain to The Miseducation of the Negro (that’s actually a great book.)

I don’t want to be an angry black woman… for any reason. I choose to be kind, I choose to accept those that accept me, I choose to use my history as a stepping stone to be what I want to be and that is happy, loved and successful.

Your friend,
Precious

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This is an issue that’s always been in the back of my mind… and I’ve always wanted to express my feelings about it. Just one of those posts I feel I need to get off my chest in order to move on… it’s therapeutic for me. It may seem like I overanalyzed that just a bit… but it really does run that deep for me.

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