Black History Month: Learning to See the Difference

This entry has been stuck in my drafts since February 4th, of 2011. There’s an older entry that has handwritten journal entries that go into further detail of my experiences of being told what it means to be black. If you click the little photo under this it’ll take you to that entry. I’m having trouble with WP right now. It’s not letting me add links properly. Anyway………

My experience in 2011: Wednesday afternoon I stepped outside and it was 62 degrees. I could tell people were in a good mood and appreciative of the break from the cold. As I opened my car door to drive myself to therapy a man drove by and yelled, “N-word!”

I’m no stranger to that word. Most of the time that word cuts to the core but for some reason when I heard it that day, I pitied the man. I pitied him for choosing to spend such a beautiful day filled with hatred.

When I was younger my mother made a point of telling me I’d never fit in anywhere, not with black people or white people. She told me that black people would never accept me and to white people I’ll always be just another N-word.  She said I’d be caught between two worlds and that I might as well get used to it.

Over the years I’ve come to realize that most of the divisions between me and others, especially black people, has been an illusion created by my mother. She drew the lines, she made me feel different. This makes me wonder if the man who drove by my house was also bombarded with racial hatred and had lines drawn for him. The difference between me and that man is I grew and move past my mother’s lies. He could have done the same. We both have choices.

The main message from my mother was that I’d never fit in anywhere but with her. She was the only one who understood me, no one else would. I was to be a reflection of her and that is why she told me some of the things I intend to write about. It was all about her, not about anything or anyone but her. However, before I realized that a heck of a lot of damage had been done. I feel like I’m just now starting to learn African-American History with truth. It angers me because I feel as if I’ve missed out on so much heritage and culture. It’s almost as if when she was abusing me she not only stripped me of mental peace and stole my dignity, she made sure to deny heritage too. She was thorough when she stripped me bare.