By Lauren Kelly

One night over Thanksgiving Break I was leaving Exit, a club in New York City, with my friend when two guys approached us. They were both black. One of them had really nice eyes and a navy and cream- colored Avi. The other guy asked me how old I was. I told him I was 18. He didn’t believe me. He said I looked like I was in high school. For a few minutes he would not stop joking about how young I looked. Finally I tried to shut him up. "Yo, get over it," I said. He froze for a moment and stared at me in disbelief, "Oh shit, you sound white!" he exclaimed. His friend laughed. I walked away.

Flashbacks of middle school ran through my mind. Phrases like "jap," "sell- out," and "wanna-be white" echoed in my ears as the stability and security I felt I had built up over the years since those days of ignorant middle-schoolers suddenly collapsed. I thought it was over. But I was back where I had begun. Once again questioning myself. My race. My identity. Why was it always like this? Since when is blackness so little determined by common background and culture, but rather defined by the way that one speaks and dresses? How is it possible that one can "act black" or "act white?" 

When will people like the boy in the city finally see me as black? When I buy a pair of Timbs and Tommy jeans? When my speech is based on what I hear in songs and what I like and don’t like is centered around what they tell me on Hot 97? Why do I find myself constantly trying to justify who I am? Why am I always defending my individuality? Why is it necessary for me to prove that I have black ideals in mind?

I hate feeling ashamed of who I am because I love me. I love my personality. I love being intelligent and having friends of all races and backgrounds. But I hate being afraid to speak as I naturally do. I hate feeling that I have to think before each word I say and screen my vocabulary for words that are "too intelligent." My friends make fun of me sometimes for using big words– even if they know what I mean. People don’t like it when black people sound too intelligent– it goes against the stereotype, the mold that someone created and now I must fit into in order to be accepted as one of them.

One night when I was home over winter break I was talking to my parents about my post-Wes plans. This consisted of returning to NYC after grad school, getting an apartment in Brooklyn, and working in the city. "An apartment in Brooklyn?’ They were appalled. "Well, cause it’s cheaper than Long Island," I tried to justify. "It is actually more expensive to live in Brooklyn," they told me. I struggled to give them other reasons for my desire to live in Brooklyn. I did not want to admit that this decision was an attempt to find myself– or at least who I was "supposed to be." 

Maybe if I lived in Brooklyn I would adopt the characteristics of blacks that I somehow lack (according to reliable sources such as the boy on the street in the city). Maybe I could finally be accepted without doubts and stop searching for an alternate identity to that which I already know I have.
 
My dad just couldn’t understand why I would want to live in Brooklyn. "We worked so hard to get out of there and move here so  you can have all of this. And now you want to go back?" Yes, I had heard repeatedly the story of my dad’s lonely migration from Kingston, Jamaica (Biggup) to NYC where he worked in the Macy’s gift-wrapping department (and he’s a damn good wrapper, might I add); and how, after years of hard work and struggle, he now lives in a comfortable home in Long Island with a wife and three kids. So why am I made to feel ashamed to have so much? To have received a good education at a suburban public high school, a nice house, my own car, and a loving family. I am lucky. I should feel lucky. So why
have I often wished I had lived a life of struggle and poverty? Why do I feel guilty for not having hardships to deal with? Why is it a sin to speak well? 

My parents devoted their lives and made daily sacrifices for my happiness, and yet I feel compelled to reject it because it makes me different– because these luxuries are associated with whites. Therefore, I am labeled as not "truly black." What is the purpose of struggling to live a comfortable life when all it does is separate you from your community? Is it worth it?

I have tried, however. I have tried to be that image of "blackness," to fit into that mold. Maybe you can change, Lauren. Maybe you can save up your work-study money and get a pair of Timbs. Tint the windows of your Corolla and put in a new system– but play only hip-hop ’cause black people don’t listen to Ani Difranco.

But one thing I’ve learned is that you can never change who you truly are. No matter what I wear or how I talk I could never escape myself. I will always be from Long Island, and I will always receive the disappointed "Oh" when people ask me where I’m from. (Where are you from? New York. Really? What part? Long Island. Oh.) I can’t deny who I am or where I’m from, and you know what? I don’t want to. A person cannot be judged on how they speak, but rather what they say. 

Who defines "blackness"? I don’t know. But I know who I am. I know what I am. To quote the great Leila Estes in her monologue performed at Jubilee last Saturday night, "I’m me, you’re you. And I’m lovin’ it."
 

Kelly is a member of the class of 2004 and the Photo Editor of the Argus.