How the “Whitewashed” Label Affected My Racial Identity as a Black Boy in a Diverse Classroom
The first friendship I ever forged was with a blonde-haired, specs-wearing, freckled-faced white boy named Michael. He was in the Boy Scouts and never let a day pass by without sharing what he learned from what we dubbed as “The CIA for kids”. From tying square knots, to starting fires to endless end-of-world survival tips — he always had something to share. His passion was infectious. We were extremely competitive against each other.
Everyday at recess we’d race from one side of the playground to the other to see who’s the fastest. We’d be doubled-over with our hands cupping our knees, panting like dogs from being out of breath but somehow mustering up enough air to argue who touched the gate first. Anytime we played football or basketball he’d always make a point to guard me and vice versa. We had a true Abed and Troy relationship (Community ref. FTW).
It never once occurred to me that my first friend was white nor did I care. I just had a friend who happened to be white.
My colorblind lens however would soon fall victim to the clouded prejudices that consumes us all.
Black Kid in a Private School
Growing up in rural South Georgia doesn’t necessarily grant you an overflow of options in the world of academia. Although I was raised in what some would consider the “boondocks of the south”, my parents both had decent jobs. My Dad was a Plant Manager and my Mom worked in Quality Assurance for a local auto-manufacturing company.
Like any decent parent would do my folks worked hard to give us access to the best education they could afford. For them that meant sending both me and my younger sister to a local private school — opting out on sending us to a public institution. They saw the public school system as “unsafe”, “unruly” and academically inferior to that of a private institution.
This sole decision would prove to be the most pivotal moment of my life.
It completely altered the trajectory of my adolescent experience as a young black male in America.
There were only 6 black kids in a school that housed over 300 students. I grew up around white people. Hunted with them. Ate lunch with them. Had sleepovers with them. Developed my sense of humor and musical taste from them. I would watch Brady Bunch and Boy Meets World like it was a religion. I was bumping Hanson and Linkin Park before I knew who or what an OutKast or UGK was.
I was liked. I was accepted. I even became somewhat popular at my private school over the years.
I felt at home.
This would all take a dark and drastic turn during my 10th grade year. My entire world was about to get flipped upside down — inside out.
This would prove to be the second most pivotal moment in my life.
Stoop Kid Leaves the Stoop
What was once a prominent educational haven for kids to gain access to better education became a embezzlement-infested swamp of deceit, lies and dysfunction.
Word got out that the school janitor inappropriately touched one of the underaged females at the school. She was also a good friend of mine. It was swept under the rug and soon after she transferred schools. Never to be heard from again.
That was just the tipping point.
Word also got out that the school secretary (who was unironically married to the janitor) misused and embezzled tuition funds, severely affecting the upkeep of the school and its facilities.
Then there was the accreditation problem. Since the school prioritized hoarding money over the future academic success of its students, many graduating students struggled to get accepted into post-secondary universities.
This is where shit became well acquainted with fan.
Parents began pulling out their kids in droves — reducing a school that once housed 500+ students down to 50. In one year. One. year.
My parents had seen enough. They were pulling me out despite the begging and pleading I did with them to let me stay. I would’ve offered my left kidney as sacrifice if that meant I could stay. It was my comfort zone. Accreditation and educational future be damned.
They were recommended by a work colleague that this public school 15 miles down the road called Schley County was the place to go. They had high academic standards and one of the highest graduation rates in South GA. That was enough for my parents to initiate the transfer and pull me out of the swamp-infested stoop I grew so accustomed to.
My Brief Black Cultural Baptism/Awakening
My Aunt, may God rest her soul, was not a fan of me and my sister’s constant absence on the black culture attendance sheet. She was the walking definition of a strong independent black woman. My first image of what that looked like came straight from her. She was strong-willed, strong-minded and deeply pro-black. She had African-inspired art all throughout her apartment and went out of her way to ensure minority students at my alma mater, Georgia SouthWestern State University, had equal access to grants, scholarships and funding like everyone else.
It was the summer of 2006–the last summer before I was set to make my big public school debut, that my Aunt decided to enroll both me and my sister into Morehouse’s Upward Bound program for the next two years.
This would prove to be the third most pivotal moment in my life.
I still remember the day my parents dropped us off on campus grounds. I remember the way my stomach turned slowly with angst and fear. I remember looking over and watching my sister cry, waving our final goodbyes as our parents drove off into the sunset. You would’ve thought they were dropping us off at Riker’s Island.
For the first time in my life I was completely surrounded by people that looked like me. It was the first time I saw what black teachers looked like. For the next three months I was completely engulfed in black culture — learning about our ancestors, learning how we come from a long lineage of inventors, scholars, doctors, mathematicians and so on. Learning about the great Martin Luther King Jr. and viewing the same dorm he stayed in while attending Morehouse.
All of the black history I was robbed of was returned to me tenfold during my time in Morehouse’s Upward Bound program. There was a monstrous seed planted inside of me during my time there that continues to take root in how I honor black excellence in all that I do. It was a culture shock that primed me for my new venture into public school civilization.
Or so I thought.
Culture Shock Meet Culture Seizure
Before I take you on this journey I need to make something clear and connect a few dots in case you haven’t already.
I never attended my local public school. That means most if not all of my hometown peers have no clue who I am. Thus I am alienated. Meaning I have no friends to take with me as I cross over into unchartered territory. The ones I made in private school have either moved or were being home-schooled. My graduation year was also around the corner so I had to shift more focus on securing that ‘ploma and less on hanging with the boys.
I also had to battle the “you think you’re better than us” stigma from a decision my parents made to send me to a school they thought was the “better” choice.
Double L.
At the time of my attendance in ’06, Schley County was made up of about 65% white kids and 35% black. In contrast that’s 34.999% more black kids than I was accustomed to back in private.
I still remember the insane of amount of butterflies swarming around in my stomach as we pulled up to the school for the first day of class. I remember having no clue how to work a locker. I remember carrying my schedule around in my hand like a lost puppy as I traversed through the halls trying to find the right classroom.
But most of all?
I remember the cafeteria.
Roast battles, freestyles, bullying, food swaps, school gossip…the stuff of legends. It all went down at the caf. It is the nostalgic epicenter of any kid’s experience through school. For better or for worse.
For me…and I’m sure you already guessed it….was the latter.
As humans we go with what’s familiar. That includes the people we hang with. So despite my black skin and dark hair, upon entering the cafeteria I chose to sit down with the unpopular white kids. The nerds who were cool but were still nerds. That was my tribe. And to my surprise they accepted me with open arms. As hard as I tried to settle into my new home something still felt….off.
Week after week I kept getting looks from the “black” table. Then one day one of the founding members of the black table coalition motioned for me to come over.
Time immediately froze.
Seconds went by but they felt like hours. Do I get up and join my black brethren, integrating myself deeper into the cultural fabric of my people? Or do I stay? Leaning closely against the same people that made me feel at home years past? I hesitated, looked them over with one final guilt-filled glance, picked up my tray and walked over.
This would prove to be the fourth most pivotal moment in my life.
My Rite of Passage
What I thought would be a soft landing, a sort of “welcome home” moment turned into an ever-lasting turbulent cycle of bullying, getting roasted into oblivion for being “too white”, excessive teasing, etc.
Despite the psychological torture — I kept coming back for more. I wanted to be accepted by my people so bad I put up with the daily abuse.
After awhile I became numb to it.
After that I started firing back.
Although the cafeteria table served as the genesis of my anxiety — it granted me my roasting chops. It knighted me with tough skin — the same skin that has gotten me through some of life’s toughest challenges.
My stripes were battle tested. My rite of passage earned.
But I still felt like an outsider. During my two years there I made no real friends. No group accepted me. I was simply tolerated. These kids grew up together. Their parents know each other. Many of them lived on the same street.
I was simply a passerby. I was in my lone wolf arc and didn’t know it. Although I hated the experience I’m grateful for what it made me. What it molded me into. It made me aware of my dormant abilities. My ability to adapt. My ability to persevere. My ability to stay positive.
But most important — it made me aware of my inability to fit in.
Because I was never meant to. And that’s perfectly ok.
Despite some of my classes such as Etymology and Christian Theology not being accepted as accredited classes (shocker), I still managed to graduate on time — with distinction. I still remember the day my class took graduation photos. I didn’t even care to be in them. I stuck around for one photo and dipped. Walked across the stage the next day with my ‘ploma in hand and never looked back.
Although I grew as an induvial I still yearned for my tribe. College would give me that — and so much more.
I Am Not Alone
To this day attending college has been one of the most memorable, most positive experiences of my life. There wasn’t one clique or one tribe. There were hundreds of them. No matter who you were — there was SOMEONE out there as equally weird and quirky as you. You’re surrounded by people from all over the globe. From Africa, to Asia to Europe.
It was the first time in my life that being different was the norm. I loved every minute of it. Met some amazing people. Many of whom I’m still in contact with to this day.
If you made it this far into my story you are truly a legend. I know this is a lot but I had to share my story. I wrote it in hopes that someone out there, even if it’s just one person, will read it and be inspired to tell their own. That someone out there will get the guts to be themselves and reject the identity society tries to mold for you.
Be yourself. Life is much too short to be anyone else.
‘Till next time…
