Being Gray

I remember when I was much younger, most likely in fourth or fifth grade, when the topic of slavery would be brought up in school, everyone in my class would turn and look at me. They had varying expressions on their faces; mostly worry that the very topic of slavery would upset or anger me, being the only one in the room with a darker complexion. Others, I think, simply looked at me because they didn’t really understand the larger concepts, about why race was important or why it could make others feel bad. When I tell that story, many people gawk at the insensitivity of the students in that class. They comment that their parents must be racist or the children must have been taught to be wary of people of my skin color.

I’ve tried to never think of it that way. It could have just been an uncomfortable subject after all. The thing that has always worried me, however, is the fact that I feel nothing toward those topics, events or stories. They are horrible events, of course, but I don’t feel a sense camaraderie with those who had been forcibly taken to the New World or subjugated during the years following.

I suppose I’ve never felt black. To me, being black is a term that others have pushed on to me over the years. I certainly didn’t feel different until somebody put that label into my mind. However, when I was told what I was, I still didn’t feel any different. Growing up with a single white parent makes things like race seem so blurry and non-corporeal. I’ve always just identified as me, and nobody else.

In the outside world however, I began to realize that I was indeed looked at differently than others. People at school considered me to be threatening in appearance and most gave me a wide berth. Department store owners kept their eyes on me whenever I walked in the door. Clerks at jewelry stores would assume that I wanted to look at the least expensive pieces of jewelry, and frown when I asked to pick up necklaces that I thought would make a good mother’s day present.

Everywhere around me, I was being judged for being something that I didn’t feel like I was. I didn’t feel threatening or up to no good, and yet, I was treated that way, and after all of the feelings of resentment and adversity, I still felt no attachment to the others of my race. We went through the same things, the same prejudices and judgements, and yet I am not one of them in my heart. As I grew and learned more, I began to realize that I had no place in this world of race. I wasn’t white, I wasn’t black, so what world did I belong to?

It took a long time to realize that I wasn’t the one with the problem. The word race was the problem. It’s very existence is a way to divide, segregate, and categorize the people of the world, and it is held in the hearts of everyone on this planet. By taking into your heart the idea that race exists, you take in the concept that something about human ancestry makes us fundamentally different, not just in appearance, but in how we should expect to be treated.

The moment I accepted that I was black, I began to see the world as though it were a grid. Some people receive privileges “x” while other people are entitled to privileges “y”. I accepted that those with lighter skin were allowed to judge me for my appearance. I saw those at school as justified in being wary of me. I allowed myself to be followed through stores. I let those things happen because I believed that it was how the world was supposed to function.
This is an arbitrary line that has been drawn around us by every past generation, and the thing that is truly most terrifying, is that we, as a people, chose to redraw the lines around ourselves every day. If I had never been told I was black, what would my life be like today? Maybe I would respect and admire cops, and not fear them. It's possible I would scold those who try to profile me instead of numbly accepting it.

For me, it’s too late however. I know the consequences. The world has trained me well to be subservient and docile. I fear what cops will do to me if I step out of line. I dread being profiled, but I do nothing to stop it, and when I have children, what will I say to them? If I don’t warn them of the dangers of having their skin color, what will happen to them? Is it right to stand up for your values, when it will be your children who suffer for it? No. This system will repeat itself, even in my home, because I refuse to send children into the world unprepared for the prejudice of others, that was ironically installed in them by the idle actions and subtle ignorance of older generations.

If together, we could throw away these lines of segregation we have made for ourselves, maybe we could see an era of peace and tranquility. Imagine a world where having a black president wasn’t groundbreaking or revolutionary? Imagine a world where you wouldn’t question whether or not the cop that arrested you did so out of racism. It seems so easy, so why is it so hard for us to achieve?