Playing the White Role
I really wanted to fit in.
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They say that your reality is created by what you most desire. That the world surrounding you reflects your inner most wishes. Now, I could get into the neuroscience of it all, but that’s not as fun as telling a story (unless you’re a neuroscientist! Haha!). And already, I hear some folks protesting this statement (“What do you mean I want pain?”). But let me ask you this (as I slide into a little neuroscience –whoops! -- haha): did you know that our subconscious runs about 95% of the show? Do you know what’s actually in your subconscious? Go chew on that while I tell you a story.
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I don’t remember much of my childhood. Little snapshots of memory here and there. Most of my memories of growing up take place during high school, but even then, it feels blurry. With big pockets of blankness. I thought this was normal. That everyone really didn’t remember their childhoods. Until people around me told stories of this thing or that –so many stories. I wondered, How are they remembering so much? I later learned that my mostly forgotten childhood is a symptom of trauma.
What I do remember is that up until sixth grade, I usually did my own thing, whether friends wanted to join me or not. I wasn’t caught up in trying to get people to like me. I just did my thing. (Which was usually reading. I’m a big bookworm. Have been since I first learned how to read.) Sometimes, I’d ride bikes with the neighborhood kids on my street; sometimes, I’d just ride by myself.
I remember how much I wanted to ride a ten-speed. I wanted to grow up already and graduate from the banana seat bicycle (for which, as I write this, I feel so much nostalgia!). I was on the cusp of turning eleven. Sixth grade. I got on that bike—my mom’s 10-speed Schwinn— and could barely reach the pedals, even with the seat set at its lowest. But, being a Taurus (and my father’s daughter), I was stubborn. I rode that bike up and down my street, pedaling with my toes. That’s how insistent I was. And some boys a few houses down were outside in their driveway, their BMX bikes thrown down on their sides, watching me precariously balance on the thin tires. One of them shouted something.
“You look like Kermit the Frog!” They all laughed.
Inside, I laughed, too. I kinda felt like Kermit.
But they didn’t deter me. That comment didn’t make me fall off the bike and give up. I kept going.
This was me before seventh grade.
The girl who didn’t give a shit about what anybody thought (well, except for her parents).
Seventh grade ended it all. Or, rather, it put that girl away in a small room in the farthest corner of her heart.
And for years, she stayed there. Hidden. Quiet. In the dark.
But not entirely silent.
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I really wanted to fit in.
And I did what I needed to do. No matter the cost.
I went about playing the wannabe white girl.
Of course, at the time, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. It was the subconscious running the show. (Remember what I said at the beginning?).
In seventh grade, I was living in a sea of white.
So, I acted as the world reflected back at me expected me to.
From that point on, I started listening to white music: Bon Jovi (and all the big-hair bands: Warrant, Skid Row, Motley Crue), Springsteen, New Kids On the Block (I know, I know. I’ll never live down that confession! Haha!). But, interestingly enough, I didn’t go whole-hog all-white. (Hah!) I looooved Whitney. Still do. I also secretly listened to hip-hop and rap (after all, this was the late 80s / early 90s and things were just starting to cook!)—Tribe Called Quest, Public Enemy, Salt-N-Pepa. Run-DMC— in Cousin Mike’s room. (Oh, and house music, too! How I looooved house music. And freestyle! Damn! Gimme some Expose and Cover Girls!)
His dad and my mom grew up together in the same town, so we’d be over their house a lot. Me, my brother, Cousin Mike, and his best friend, Brian (who was practically a “cousin” too). And I’ll tell ya: it was a big deal that my parents let me hang out in a boys’ room— that’s how tight our families were. If it was anyone else, forget it! I’d be the girl stuck in the kitchen listening to the adults tsmisis while my brother had fun hanging out with the other kids.
Because of Cousin Mike, I wasn’t a total banana (i.e. totally white-washed Asian kid: yellow on the outside, white on the inside). Thank God! But I listened in secret because 1) I was a good girl and good girls don’t listen to such rough sounds, and 2) hip-hop & rap is Black music and the last thing my parents wanted was us having to do with anything that’s remotely Black. (Remind me to tell you about the time when I was six and I wanted to be friends with the Black girl on my street. Let’s just say we never did get to be friends.)
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Yes, there’s so much to unpack there. But let’s focus on one thing at a time so as not to overwhelm. My way of healing is a gentle peel back, layer by layer. Some folks like to rip them all off like a giant metaphysical band-aid… which feels rough. I feel it’s more effective and lasting to ease into it. Your nervous system will thank you. Mine does.
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I knew I would get in trouble if my parents found out that I was listening to Black music. So not only was I getting messaging that white is “right”, I also got messages from my parents that Black is “wrong” or undesirable. What wild racism. I didn’t agree with them—how could folks that made such awesome music be bad?—but because I was a good girl, I didn’t argue either.
Down inside, I was still the girl who did what she wanted to do, who did her own thing, but now, just in secret.
On the outside, I did everything I could to participate in the role of whiteness, even though I knew I wasn't white nor could I ever be. I dressed preppy. (Writing that makes me cringe a little, if I'm being honest.) I wore docksiders and alternated between khakis and jeans. Polo shirts? Maybe.
In high school, I found myself part of the white girls student council clique. You know the ones who always run for student council, trying to get longer lunch periods, and adjustments to the uniform, like the freedom to select our footwear and asking for more dress down days.
Except for sophomore year, when I was part of The Posse, the Filipina clique. But that's a whole other story I will tell.
In continuing my quest for whiteness, I went to a super-white college. A small conservative liberal arts one in the Northeast. It was there that I fully immersed myself in whiteness, mostly oblivious to the fact that I was actually on the edges, never fully part of it. It actually got worse: I swapped out docksiders for Birkenstocks, participated in white sports (I rowed crew, then became a coxswain), listened to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, & Phish, and went to frat parties. (Omg, I want to vomit. Haha! But the good news is that the hidden Me still slipped out in musical preferences: Destiny’s Child, En Vogue, TLC, and still Salt-N-Pepa).
I wanted so badly to belong. To be loved. To be assured of that love.
I did what was expected of me. I did what was asked of me, including things I didn’t want to do. I sacrificed Me to get closer to whiteness. And by doing that, I really believed I would finally be loved.
My long-time on-again off-again boyfriend, who was, naturally, part of a fraternity, refused to pin me (God, how awful does that sound??). Pinning is a custom in the fraternity world in which a brother formally announces his commitment to his girlfriend by ceremonially giving her his fraternity letters in the form of a pin that she wears daily. For some, it’s considered a precursor to engagement. The language alone irritates me as I write this. Pin me. Seriously? As if I were a specimen for one to possess. As if I were a butterfly to add to his collection on the wall.
From what I remember, so many of my sorority sisters were getting pinned by their boyfriends. (God, that sounds so ridiculous!) It was that season of college – get (pre)engaged or breakup. I was starting to feel left out. Was it me? Did I not do enough for the relationship? Or was I not white enough?
In the end, it was him. He was a commitment-phobe. But for me to even wonder whether or not I was white enough speaks to the level of trauma from white supremacy. The layers run deep.
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This is part of the Maverick Monday series, where I talk about healing trauma (micro and macro) through the lens of a woman writer of color (that’s me!). Each week, I’ll share a personal story from my healing journey in the hopes that others will find comfort in knowing that they are not alone. I hope that by doing this, you can see that YES! Healing—true, lasting, deep healing--- IS possible and that you can thrive in your life, living as your most authentic self without shrinking from the world.
