The White Supremacy in Me
This may be one of the most difficult and painful things for me to write about to date. I feel shame over it, but I feel it’s important to share because it might give you a different perspective. I hope you hang in here with me because it’s long and may be difficult to read.
Through all the conversations we’ve been having, I have never felt like I needed to ask any questions of the white community. Because of how and where I grew up, I felt I knew all the answers. The white community had been “my community.” I did not think there was much I needed to learn about myself either, because I have always been a very introspective person who is honest with herself. Until I read this.
“White supremacy can also infiltrate the thinking of people of color and is seen walked out through internalized racism, colorism, and other such manifestations.”
It was like a punch in the gut, and tears came to my eyes. I immediately knew what this meant, and how it applied to me. How in the world could I grow up a black girl with a white supremacist attitude? Believe me when I say that might be one of the hardest things I have ever typed in my life, but it is was my disturbing reality.
Before I tell you how those manifestations presented themselves, let me explain.
Growing up in the 80s, I was immersed in a predominately white world. Pop-culture, through magazines, movies, television, newspapers, dolls, everything told me that the gold standard of beauty in this country, was long, silky flowing hair, a narrow nose, skinny body, thin-lips, and light eyes.
I wasn’t any of that.
I had short kinky hair, a wide nose, thick legs, full lips, and close to black eyes. Because I didn’t look like what pop culture and the media told me was beautiful, I assumed that I was ugly. . . but not ugly enough not to be pushed to date the only black boy in my whole Jr. High school, while my beautiful barbie doll-like friends had a plethora of choices.
There were a few exceptions, but the predominant portrayal of people that looked like me, was less than positive. We were violent criminals, rapists, welfare babies, thugs, aggressive, and lazy. If we weren’t that, then we were comedians, dancers, athletes, singers, or any job meant to entertain. I wasn’t any of those things, so I just tried to fit into my Southern California world of white perfection.
The perception I had of myself through lenses that didn’t belong to me was skewed. By the time I was a teenager, something happened to me that I wasn’t conscious of until recently.
Self-hate.
I didn’t know that’s what it was, but I knew I wished I looked like the other girls in my school, and models on tv and in magazines. Maybe then I would feel worthy of the places I found myself in. I wanted to be white. I just knew if I were, I could be cool and have a boyfriend just like all my girlfriends did. Of course, not one of them knew of my discontent. I feigned satisfaction with the position of “note carrier” of love notes and deliverer of secret admirer gifts from the boys who liked my friends but never considered me.
There were times when I thought maybe a boy thought of me as more than a friend. I dreamt of it, but none ever found me worthy enough to admit they liked the black girl. I even prayed that God would lighten my skin to make me more tolerable. I spent many evenings with a bath towel draped over my head, secured by bobby pins on either side, pretending that I had long flowing hair, while I flirted with my imaginary boyfriend in the mirror.
More self-hate
I was not aware of the subtle spiral downward to the pit where I began to hate what I was shown my skin represented.
Please note that I was raised in a Christian home, with loving parents, who did their absolute best to instill the love of God in us. I knew the scripture…
“Then God said, “Let us make human beings in our image, to be like us. They will reign over the fish in the sea, the birds in the sky, the livestock, all the wild animals on the earth, and the small animals that scurry along the ground.” So, God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” Genesis 1:26-27 NLT
But for a young impressionable girl, it wasn’t enough to pull me out of that pit of self-hate. I’m not sure I felt included in this scripture. Black people didn’t reign over anything. Maybe I wasn’t a part of this story after all. This is why when told that God made a mistake when he made me black, I agreed.
I know this has already been long, but please allow me to tell you a short story.
During my Sophomore year of high school, my school had a talent show, where kids were allowed to dress up. There was one boy in particular, who dated one of my best friends, who came dressed as Michael Jackson (the black version). I knew him to be a nice kid. He showed out in full “blackface.” Black wig, brown face, neck, arms, fingers… At some point, he sprinted over, put his arm around me and said, “Hey Christina! We can totally date now!”
What did that mean? Is that something he had secretly desired? Was he making fun of me? I didn’t know how to feel, so I just laughed, and through my smile felt…
Self-hate.
I am struggling to continue sharing this with you as I fight back tears and shame.
I told myself it didn’t matter because we were moving to Ohio that Summer anyway.
Fast forward to the Summer after I graduated from high school in Ohio. My very wise mother signed me up to attend a minority summer program called LINKS at Ohio University, where I would be attending that Fall. I was horrified! I screamed, cried, and pleaded for her not to make me go. I didn’t have anything in common with those black kids! I would be uncomfortable. None of them grew up like me. I wasn’t going to fit in! I thought I was better than they were.
Don’t make me gooooooo!
My mom knew what I needed, and my reaction probably solidified her decision. When I got there, I was scared to death. However, my black girl raised in a white world sonar must have gone off, and very quickly, I met two girls who were raised just like me. I was surprised to find, that although all of us in the program came from many different backgrounds, places, and situations, we had one thing in common. We all knew the struggle of what it was like to live in this country with skin like ours. For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged. I didn’t have to explain, I didn’t have to suppress, I didn’t have to pretend. For one whole week, I could just be me.
When I started school in the Fall, I was excited to be back with my new “brothers and sisters.” During my first semester of school, I even took some classes to learn more about the people I was growing to love more and more each day. Black History, Black Media, and even Swahili classes all introduced me to a story I had never been told in school. After my first Black History class, I came out angry. I never knew we were kings and queens in Africa. I never knew we invented so many of the things in the world we all used every single day.
We did more than find 300 uses for the peanut?
I had a hard time looking at the majority around me who I felt robbed me of knowing the glorious past of my people. We were more than slaves. We were more, but I still had 17 years of a different version of us, ingrained into my mind. At least I had a new image to combat it with.
I could continue telling you a number of stories of my new experience as a black girl who came to know herself, but this is social media, and you didn’t pick this up to read a book.
I will tell you that although I saw some improvements over the next 29 years of my life, those negative images of who my people were and continue to be, came face to face with a different narrative of who the media (magazines, TV, internet, movies, etc.) has portrayed us to be. For those (like me before college) who have lived much of their life in a community with very little interaction with people of color from all backgrounds and experiences, one can only count on what they are shown and told to believe.
It pains me to confess that I STILL must fight against believing stereotypes of my own people due to the images that to this day remain in my head. However, have learned, “Your first thought is what society has conditioned you to think, the second thought defines who you are.”
Thank God that today I know what the truth is, as I choose to take every one of my thoughts captive, and make them obedient to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5) who tells me that I, that we, are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). I am a proud black woman. I love my brown skin. I love who I am and who we as a people are and continue to be. We are all made in His image. . . red, yellow, black, and white, and God does not make mistakes.
I pray for so many, who still struggle to see all of God’s people, including themselves, as His beautiful creations.
Now I ask. . . If that happened to me, what do you think it did to you?
“Are we not all children of the same Father? Are we not all created by the same God? Then why do we betray each other, violating the covenant of our ancestors?”
Malachi 2:10 NLT
Thank you for being here today. If would love to hear from you, and I invite you to be a part of this conversation. Please comment below. If there is anything I have shared that you believe others can benefit from, please share with as many people as you can. I love making this journey with you.
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