I don't exactly remember when I realized I was on the verge of becoming an Uncle Tom, but I assure you it was before I graduated college. There wasn't any grand event like a cop singling my out amid my white friends or a profound witchhunt like a proud black woman calling out something problematic I said. No, I was too homely and quiet for either of those to transpire. Besides, being problematic didn't exist in 2007-2011; you were just wrong.
There was never any separation from black classmates as a whole. I had several friend groups during college, one being the extensive multi-cultural underground at my PWI. No, one day I just realized I was an uppity negro.
Though I grew up in a crime ridden city, I definitely grew up privileged. I had two older sisters and divorced parents, but I still got most of what I asked for. I still remember the day I ask my mother if we were poor because we switched from boxed to bagged cereal, yet I was never in danger of not going to private schools. My parents definitely sacrificed and provided for me.
By the time I reached middle school, I realized I was different. I couldn't relate to the other kids at church when they talked about their shenanigans. I would run into elementary school classmates and wonder how we came from the same place. My natural intelligence was budding. I knew better than to do certain things that would make me look "foolish" or ghetto, but I also looked down on those that participated in those reindeer games.
I had never seen the crime I heard about in Newark, but I always knew it was around me, lurking. Eventually it would come for me. And somewhere along the way, I equated lack of education and desperation to my black peers who weren't lucky enough to grow up like me. Newark was too black for me; I didn't know how to relate. So I was happy to leave for college, not realizing it was my gateway drug to caucasity.
Baltimore reminded me of Newark; it felt like home right away. However, there was a light that shined on Baltimore that at the time didn't shine on Newark. I realize now that light was gentrification mixed with quirkiness. The quirkiness is what distracted me, what drew me, what I related to. Besides my immediate family, I didn't know of any black people that were as weird or silly as me. I equated silliness with being carefree, but of course that isn't true. As a now silly 29 year old, I can assure you I am not carefree. I am weary.
Part of this weariness comes from the current state of our nation. It's exhausting, I'd like to report on it from the black perspective, but these days I only have my own. It's not that I've lost touch with black culture, but I've lost touch with the community. Post-college, I surrounded myself with wacky and interesting people, men and women of different cultural and sexual backgrounds. It was my own little bubble from the world, but in it, it's hard to admit white wasn't the default. Sure at the core of the group was a gay black man, an afro-latina lesbian, and an unfortunately-straight Asian men, but our playgrounds were wholly white spaces we inserted ourselves into, proving we could go anywhere.
Along the way, I lost the ability to relate to some black people. Occasionally, a friend would bring over a black person I didn't like because they seemed ignorant through and through. Granted, I held contempt for some of the basic white women my friends would invite over as well, but the unwanted black guests burned hotter in my spirit. Was I disappointed they weren't being "10x as good" but instead fine with the environment they were in? Was I jealous they were so at peace with themselves, that they knew where they belonged? Reflecting on it, it's still hard to tell.
So why am I exposing myself in this manner? Why am I criticizing myself? Why do I feel so lost?
Well, because I thought I had it figured out, but I don't. This year has proved that to me.
Part of me has always believed I had trouble writing because I was writing for the wrong audience, from the wrong experiences. I shifted my audience in college to educate the white and straight majorities about black and queer culture, but I lost myself along the way. I needed to be back among my people if I was going to properly write for them.
Last year, I joined an organization to not only help spread sexual health awareness and LGBT acceptance but to reconnect with black gay men. However in the last 20 months, I froze up during any event were they were the majority. I passed up invitations to black gay events because I didn't know who I would go with, to afraid to dive in on my own. I felt like a phony within my own demographic. Perhaps it's because I'm trying to be something I'm not, but still I yearn to reconnect with them.
In another facet of my life, I moved from the outskirts of the city to the downtown area two and a half years ago. I went from a mixed community to a predominantly black area experiencing an invasion from med students and young white 20-somethings. I had long considered myself a peacemaker between black and white, but that was no longer the case. The people I now live among are more like the people I left behind in Newark.
It's often that I feel the glares of the locals as I walk from the bus stop to my home. It's like they can tell I've abandoned them, that I'd rather sit up under my white friends than talk to them. And it's hard to say they're wrong. As much as I long to have a regular crew of people around me that knows how to play Spades and remembers Moesha, I don't actively seek them out.
I was robbed again at the end of last week, not even a full month after experiencing a home invasion. This time my friend and I were walking around our neighborhood playing PokemonGo, foolishly showing off our phones. We'd done it all summer; we didn't think anything of it. Before we could cross MLK Blvd, not even four blocks from our house, two black guys got us at the corner. I wanted to fight back, but they held my friend hostage with a chokehold. I didn't want to risk him getting hurt. I felt dumb; I felt betrayed; I felt humiliated. I never had much trust in white people as a whole, but living around them, I was starting to trust my own kind again - even if I still silently judged them as they stood on the corner. I would have liked nothing better than to be robbed by a white man for once.
I know I still have Uncle Tom tendencies; I'm working on them. It's still difficult when you don't feel accepted or safe around your own kind, but what have I done to make them feel accepted when they come across me?
My mind is still racing from all that's happened to me this summer, from the experiences of my entire existence. I don't want to feel other-ed anymore. In reality, though, it has to start with me. I have to change my mindset and be more open. That doesn't mean let my guard down; I've done enough of that already. However, I have to stop judging black people so harshly. Other cultures do that for us enough.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt to find a black lesbian on TalkSpace* to listen to all my problems.
Word
*Not a paid advertisement, but it could be.
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