Race Matters: Feeling “Black Enough”

A few years ago, a white colleague joked, “Well, you’re not Really Black, Christine. It was one of those moments where you struggle to find the right response to a microaggression on the spot. Outrage? Teaching moment? Laugh about it? I chose the third (and I still regret it). But in a way, I was less angry at that comment than at the shame that erupted within me as a result of that comment. It was painfully racist, yes, but it also hit a weak spot: a kind of racial imposter syndrome, the feeling that there is a “right” way to be black (or Latino, or Jewish, etc. ) and that one way or another, we fail. .

I come from a long line of strong black ancestors, straight out of Alabama, and it would be ridiculous for them to worry about being “black enough.” And yet, it’s an anxiety I’ve carried around most of my life. I am not alone in this experience, given my discussions with other black women, many of whom, like me, were raised in the post-civil rights era, in predominantly white spaces and, therefore , have the feeling that we have “something to do”. prove,” as one woman I spoke to described it, in terms of identity. Or for biracial people, like my friend Denise, it’s the pressure to “choose a side.” Intellectually, we understand that there is no one way to be black and that no one person has any power or authority to decide that – certainly not my fellow editor – but it is a story very different, emotionally.

It goes one way when it comes from white people, and a completely different direction (harsher, sharper, deeper) when the judgment and side-eye comes from yours, when you are the target of tacit scrutiny or unsolicited comments that say you don’t belong, you are not one of us – like the guy who told my friend Felicia she needed to turn in her “black card” when she admitted she hadn’t seen the show Atlanta. Or the college friends who were outraged when Daphney, another woman I spoke to, didn’t know black sorority rituals. Taunts of “Oreo” or “she thinks she’s white.”

I never thought I was white (nor wanted to be, for the record). In fact, it was often obvious that I wasn’t, given how often I stood out as the “only” black person. I grew up with mostly white friends in suburban Maryland; our friendships were born the same way most are: proximity, shared classes and extracurricular activities, and this teenage clique that builds on itself. I loved these women and they played a fundamental role in my maturity – and yet, every time we sang about Indigo Girls, every party or sleepover where I was the only black girl, every time I put on my Gap cargo pants instead. from FUBU, I felt like I was doing something wrong. Every time I looked black children sitting together in the cafeteria, I felt embarrassed and separated. Judge. Why is she friends with them? She thinks she’s too good for us? Seen as one of “those” black girls who preferred to be with white guys, or worse, just didn’t want to be with black guys (which wasn’t the case at all, of course). Even my long, straight hair and the fact that I had no booty to speak of—physical attributes I had no control over—seemed to conspire against me. All of this left me with a specific type of shame.

By the time I left for college, I was determined to correct my course. I made a conscious effort to have only Black Friends; this was my chance to prove to them (and to myself) that I belonged with them. My friend Ciji had the same goal, so she moved from an almost all-white private high school in Texas to an HBCU. And yet, we both found that our self-consciousness persisted – and even grew more intense. “My image of college was shaped by television and whiteness: the frat parties, the sweatpants, and the kegs of beer,” Ciji told me. She felt out of place with her black friends when she didn’t have the “right” clothes, didn’t know the “right” music, or wasn’t familiar with the deep rituals and traditions of HBCU culture . “I knew how to play Spades,” she says, “but I was too scared!”

For my part, I learned to play spades in college and dominoes. I learned all the lyrics to Biggie’s songs. I lined my lips with brown liner and wore sheer black shirts, just like En Vogue. I read Baldwin and Bell Hooks. I made lifelong black friends, with whom I was able to talk for the first time in my life about things that my white friends would never understand. Who I could talk to about my white friends.

And even. It didn’t erase the feeling that I had to hide my Ani Difranco CDs or risk being dragged away. That didn’t stop my heart from racing every time I got on the dance floor and imagined someone laughing at my lack of rhythm. It didn’t hurt any less when someone made fun of the way I spoke. It didn’t make me any less desperate to be better at code switching and drop the slang easily. In other words, the struggle continued.

As was the case for Ciji. Years after graduating from an HBCU and starting her own Black ride or die band, Ciji visited her now-husband’s large extended Black family for the first time and felt nervous about how she – and its darkness – would be perceived. “I didn’t even want to open my mouth, because I was afraid they would judge the way I spoke from the jump. I thought I wouldn’t be trusted to bring mac and cheese or greens to family dinner. When she went for a morning run, she was sure they were all thinking: “It’s white people’s shit.” Ciji points out to me that her in-laws are warm and welcoming, and seven years later she can laugh about her worries when she first met them – but that initial anxiety was real. In fact, when I first asked her if we could talk about not feeling “black enough,” she said, “Yes, but I’m going to cry.” »

Self-consciousness can be hard to shake. At the same time, it is futile, not to mention toxic, to try to fit into a clichéd definition of “blackness.” Does it come down to being able to twerk, or being good at basketball, or growing in the projects, or bringing down the shrine with your catchy rendition of “His Eye Is On The Sparrow”? No, of course not – these are just hackneyed stereotypes that only serve to restrict “blackness” to a very narrow version when ours, like any culture, contains multitudes, which needs to be recognized and celebrated , and not reduced or mocked.

So, can I hike in Alaska and love Fleabag without being able to cook anything while remaining fully in my darkness? Of course I can. Perhaps an omniscient voice will always whisper “white girl,” as in this funny Instagram reelBut it is okay.

My friend Daphney said it best: “Being fully in my blackness means enjoying whatever I want to do – from eating watermelon to paddle boarding – no matter what company I’m in and not worrying about what people say. To think otherwise is to center whiteness. Because “blackness” only exists in relation to “whiteness”. So, to say, I am this type of Black or that type of Black, is splitting hairs. I’m just going to be fully, fully myself and enjoy life, enjoy my rest, enjoy what I love, and not have to defend it or prove it. I can’t let people limit me, white or black. Instead of imposing limits and definitions on blackness, which plays into the hands of white supremacy by creating schisms between us for no real reason, we can all simply be who we want and need to be.

Yes, that, exactly that.

I would like to hear from you. This essay focuses on my personal experience with identity, but I would like to know how people of other ethnicities have struggled with this. Let’s start the conversation in the comments! We’ll see each other there.

Christine Pride is a writer, book editor, and content consultant who lives in Harlem, New York. His novel, You have always been minewritten with Jo Piazza, is now available.

P.S. More Race Matters columnsAnd “the mistake I made at Crazy Rich Asians.”

(Portrait of Christine Pride by Christine Han.)