There have been times in my life when people, who have known me for awhile, start treating me differently after they find out that I am black. Shocking, I know. This occurred most frequently when I lived in Ohio, especially when I was in high school. Ugh…Excuse me for a moment while I mentally prepare to revisit my high school years.
Okay, okay. They weren’t that bad, but they certainly weren’t the best years of my life and I was always suspicious of those who tried to convince me that these particular four years would be the absolute pinnacle of my very existence. My high school guidance counselor was certainly guilty of this, and yeah, I know, that was sort of her job. Whatever, I still wasn’t buying her story. Our relationship was tenuous at best, mostly due to the fact that she was always trying to push Ohio State or Miami University down my throat when I told her repeatedly that I was, like, so leaving Ohio for Chicago and, “if I had to spend another four years in this God-awful state, then my tuition better come with a loaded gun.” Angst! I had it.
I remember her come-back as plain as day. She told me that her daughter had received a full ride to University of Chicago but had to decline after a college visit because, “she felt so much safer in Ohio so, she decided to go to Ohio State.”
“She turned down a scholarship to one of the best schools in the country?” I asked, my voice dripping in disbelief.
“Well, she just wasn’t comfortable there. You really should go out there for a college visit, you might change your mind as well,” she leaned in for the next part and whispered, ” I mean, there are a lot of minorities in Chicago and you have to ride the bus!”
“Well,” I began calmly, “I think I will be alright around minorities since I am one,” she looked confused, “ya know…since I am black? So, I don’t have a problem with black people.” She looked at me for a long time, squinting, looking for the “blackness.” I simply sat back and waited for the back-pedaling to begin and I have to say, it was impressive. She put on a big fake smile and quickly agreed that of course, I should go to Chicago where I would fit right in! She even suggested that I might even, “discover my roots there.”
Uh, what?
“Well, I’m actually from Chicago, I lived there so but my parents are from–”
“Really?” her eyes went wide. You’d think by now she’d have the good sense to shut the hell up, but honestly, this woman just didn’t know when to stop jamming her foot in her throat. I wish I remembered the exact wording, but shock started to take over. In a nutshell, she wondered how my parents had managed to work their way out of the ghetto that was Chicago and make their way over to this middle class utopia that was Westerville? So, now that she realized I was black and from Chicago, she assumed that my parents were uneducated and lower class and she marveled at the fact that I, “spoke so well” and told me how lucky I was to have received such a wonderful education.
It was an education alright.
It was people like this, and there were more than a few, who made my time at Westerville North less than pleasant. The people who treated my teenage self like an oddity, an inferior being who was just lucky to be there. Keep in mind, this conversation took place in the year 2000. After my early acceptance to DePaul University, I skipped out on these little chats. Especially since she kept trying to convince me to major in African-American Studies because I needed to, “discover my African roots.”
Guess I wasn’t black enough for her? Ugh, I’ll stop there. That’s another blog, for another time…
