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A message from a former awkward, insecure "Oreo."
I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was sitting in the cafeteria with my “friends” in third grade. We moved a lot in the time span that I lived in New Hampshire. Mostly all around the southern town (That they try to claim is a city and I’m just like… no.) of Nashua so we had to change schools when changing school districts.
I was used to adapting and adjusting myself to new environments. Luckily for me, being the new girl when you are young is like being the shiny new toy, even if you are a black girl with chocolaty brown skin from the past summer and braids that were still torn up because your single mom forget to get them done for the new school year.
So, I guess you could say the “popular” girls in my class swept me up in second grade almost immediately and I had found my new “best friends”. I’m not going to lie, these girls were mean; like really mean. I remember them making a list of all the girls they did not like and why as a point reference so I didn’t associate myself with them. It was intimidating. But the insecure, black girl in me was thinking, “No one will make fun of you if you are friends with these pretty blonde haired blue eyed girls.”
Then that day in the cafeteria happened.
We were sitting around and I do not even remember the conversation. I remember the words that came out of (Let’s just call her “Ashley”. There were like seventeen Ashley’s in my grade. Guessing that was a popular name that year.) Ashley B’s mouth. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “It’s like you’re not even black. You’re like and Oreo. I love it.”
That was the last day that I ever spoke to those girls. Luckily for me, I only continued my education there for half of that year before changing schools. The next school I went to was completely different. It was almost as if white children were the minority. I didn’t know it then, but it’s because we moved to a poorer neighborhood, which was fine with me. I could relate to my friends even though most of them were Dominican or Puerto Rican. They were brown and they did not even make me feel like an outcast for being darker or speaking like I was “white” because they shared a similar experience.
Fast forward to middle school and it got even worse. We moved to an even smaller town. People were nice, I guess, but once again, I was a new girl. It gets a little harder when you’re older especially since this is when kids actually get mean. Luckily, I already knew some people so I had that advantage.
As the years passed, I realized that I had to continue my role as the “Oreo” which people chose to call me every chance they got. It’s not because I wanted to but it’s because it was how I learned to survive.
Over time, I was hardened by my experiences. I became this girl who wanted to fit in so bad she would do anything to be liked or wanted. For a while, I truly believed I was one of them. I became someone completely separate than who I truly was.
It was as if I needed validation from children who didn’t even know me. I was grateful for some of the friends I did have, because I let them into my world and showed them my aspects of myself like my African heritage.
It’s not like I didn’t have friends who were POC. But to most of them I was “too white.” My demeanor and the way I spoke left me as an outcast from all my peers whether they were white or brown.
Most of the boys in my school were either Hispanic or Black. As always, it was easier for boys. Not to say that their experience was easier, but they were accepted in a way I never could be. These boys made a joke of themselves being a POC to fit in at the expense of their dignity. Or they were accepted because of their exceptional athletic skills. White boys loved them and white girls gladly dated them.
The day I remember vividly is the day I realized I was not a part of the community I tried so hard to change myself for. It was Black History Month. I went to the guidance counselor and asked if we could do something to celebrate. She suggested we make posters. I got my sister and some of our friends together and we made posters in her office during lunch and recess. We put them up all around the school and it honestly felt good, so good. I was like, “Wow. I think these posters look great and I’m glad we can bring awareness”.
I mean, all these other clubs in school would take the time out of their lives to put up posters for Valentine’s Day or St. Patrick’s Day and those posters would stay up all month. Why couldn’t I do something for Black History Month? It’s actually a month long and it’s not like we even went into depth on black issues or anything in class.
The next day, much to my surprise, the posters were defaced. You can guess what hateful word these evil little children wrote on the posters. I cried, like really cried, while ripping the posters off the walls. That day reassured my notion that no matter how hard I wanted to fit in, it didn’t matter.
I wanted to be respected more than I wanted to be liked. There were plenty of microagressions that I experienced that were very triggering. It was in middle school that I began to start to pretend to be sick to stay hme from school because of how exhausting it was to smile in my friends faces when really I felt like crying.
In high school, it was a completely different experience. My sister and I applied to a plethora of boarding schools and college prep schools in order to better prepare ourselves for college. We attended a Catholic, college prep school in Nashua and it was a completely different scenario being surrounded by rich, white children. Not to say that everyone who attended the school was rich. Most of them just had far more privilege than me for a number of different reasons.
It was really hard for me to make friends. My sister and I were the only fully black girls in our grade. This isn’t to dismiss mixed girls blackness but their experience was very different. The first day of school I had no one to eat with and I legit ate some cookies in the bathroom then went back to class early. After a couple days, I made some friends, but it wasn’t like second grade. The pretty blonde girls did not want to play with me. They kept to themselves and I did the same.
It was little things that got to me in high school. Like when the captain of the track team told me how excited she was when two black girls decided they wanted to try out or when people made fun of my clothes because they weren’t J. Crew or Lily Pulitzer. Or when history teachers asked for my input EVERY YEAR when we talked about civil rights, Africa or anything about black people for the day that we covered it. I was not represented in any way.
I remember the day that one of my teachers crossed the line. I walked into class like any other day. He addressed me and I threw up a peace sign. He asked me, “What is that? A gang sign?” He truly thought he was being funny so I entertained it.
I laughed it off and simply said, “No, it’s a peace sign. Why do you ask?” He looked at me and said, “Well most of you people are in gangs.” I looked him in the eye and said, “What do you mean ‘you people’?”
Never in my life did I actually think that phrase would ever have to come out of my mouth. He ignored it and began to lecture. The whole class my blood was boiling. I was texting all of my friends asking them what to do. I decided I would visit the vice principal and see what could be done.
In his office, I was shaking as I spoke. I broke down as tried to explain other incidents when this teacher said offensive comments to black students. He told me he would take care of it.
For the next week, I kept asking the vice principal if he had said anything since I was sitting in this teacher’s class and this man was acting as if he had done nothing wrong. It was frustrating. Finally, the vice principal basically brushed it off one day in the hallway and said that my teacher said he didn’t mean it that way. I asked what he meant by his words then. The vice principal had to go to a meeting apparently.
Now, here we are today. Ever since I went to college, I’ve finally opened my eyes to a world outside of what I was so used to. I could freely embrace every facet of being an African American women. I was never comfortable in my blackness, ever. I died my hair and wore weave all the time. I NEVER put braids in my hair because I did not want to be made fun of. I legit wanted to save my edges so bad but never had the courage because I didn’t want someone to ask me if they were my real hair.
.
I wore makeup that was far too light for my skin and I began doing anything to try to look just like the other girls. I cried into the palm of my hand in the bathrooms so often while I was in high school. I felt like an outsider every single day until I turned 18 and I knew I was one step closer to actually getting away from such a toxic environment.
I want any brown child who was in my position to know that it’s okay to speak up against your white friends when they are wrong. It’s okay to feel uncomfortable by their blatant disrespect towards you and your being. It’s okay to help them realize that their way of thinking is not fair to you.
I wish I had the guts to stand up to people more. There were separate incidents when I did, but I would always back down when I realized that there was no one on my side. My mother always used to tell me: “It’s fine not to have a big group of friends to get you into trouble. Make sure you find three good friends.”
I wished I listened to her sometimes when I was younger wanting to have 10+ friends. Don't get me wrong, I had some great friends throughout many of these experiences who I am still friends with today. I just hope young black children know its fine not to fit in when you were born to stand out (Corny, I know. Whatever).
A lot of white people from my past think I switched up on them. A lot of them have gotten blocked on social media. Every day I notice another person who deleted me for my posts on Facebook. My posts consists of praises for the accomplishments of brown people around the world and the injustices we face as minorities.
I learned my lesson and rarely post actual Facebook statuses since being told I was racist and a terrorist for supporting Black Lives Matter (lol). Those are the people who I refuse to apologize to. Those are the people who were angry when Beyoncé came out with Formation and they realized that she was black.
I used to be their complacent Negro who never voiced my opinions. I used to post cute cat videos or post song lyrics as my status. Posting about the mistreatment of minorities in this country and across the world made them uncomfortable. That doesn’t stop me at all.
Each time one of my white peers deletes me or takes the time out of their day to speak down to me for what I post, they prove my point: Black feelings are a nuisance and triggering to people who do not realize their white privilege. The difference between me and them? I refuse to shame them for how they feel towards certain issues. If you have no connection or understanding of black feelings, it’s very easy to dismiss them. Growing up around basically all white people, I understand why they think the way they think or act the way they act.
To explain myself every single time someone has a problem with me being proud of my blackness would be far too exhausting. To the people who call me “aggressive” or “loud” or “rude” or “annoying”, I hope you take the time to read this blog post and realize why I am the way I am. I never loved myself as much I do right now. I have come so far from being that insecure “Oreo” who would do anything to fit in.
Now, I could care less if no one likes me. I speak up because I was silenced for far too long. I am unbothered and unapologetic. Get used to it.
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