Trapped in the Body of a White Woman

by Kathleen Cross
Ebony Magazine -- October, 1990

I was fourteen years old, and the only White face in the room. It was a house party. You know... Young people wall-to-wall, blue light glowing in the corner, heavy breathing, fierce dancing, and Wild Cherry's latest hit record, "Play That Funky Music White Boy" blaring from the speakers mounted in each corner of the ceiling.

I was tearing up the "Body Language" (a dance of the time) mindin' my own business, when a tall, 20ish looking brother in a brown leather coat shoved me roughly with his elbow and sang harshly in my ear: "Play that funky music, WHITE GIRL."

The bitterness of his tone stung me, and I searched his eyes trying to find a clue to why I had provoked such anger in him. At fourteen, I could not understand why it was that when I raised my eyebrows and smiled apologetically for whatever it was that I had done wrong, he glared coldly at me and turned his back. Inwardly I winced, finally realizing that his anger had been provoked by the color of my skin.

I wondered how I could tell him that I was half Black, that I had lived in the Black community all my life, that I grew up on Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Blue Magic and Teddy Pendergrass. How could I let him know that I was raised on greens and neckbones and sweet potato pie, that I was a "mean" domino payer from watching my big brothers slam bones across the table on Friday evenings, that my daddy taught me the Phoenician alphabet when I was ten so that I would respect the legacy of ancient Egypt, and that my grandmother still told stories about her mother's life as a slave.

I was sure he'd feel differently if he knew that the light-skinned brother with the ten-inch natural standing by the door was my big brother, and that the high school party which he had crashed was taking place in my living room. It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, that I wanted to apologize, not so much for being White, but for not being Black enough.

I have never known what to call myself. My caramel-colored, blue-eyed brother is, by his own and most other's definition, an African-American, as is my brown-skinned sister. But I have always been referred to as "mixed," a rather innocuous term which allows me to embrace my African-Americanness without appearing to be at odds with the European in me.

The reality is that although 50 percent of my genetic makeup is European, little of my White heritage is reflected in my mannerisms or my social surroundings. And, although I am no more White than my siblings, when I refer to myself as African-American I am often accused of denying my White heritage, being emotionally and socially confused, or referred to by some as a "Wanna-be."

For some reason, contrary to genetic odds, the only pigment God saw fit to give me was in the freckles which he sprinkled across my face. My skin, my hair, my features are White, but my experience is not. Neither is it wholly Black. All my life I have been a Black woman "becoming." It is a journey in which I have been fortunate to be led by strong Black role models who expanded my limited American standards of beauty, culture and dignity, and exposed me to the truth about Africa's relationship to the past, present and future of this planet.

I have had rich experiences and relationships which will forever commit me to my African-American heritage. But, I also recognize that there is a huge gap between my living Black and looking White, and the everyday experiences of Black Americans. It is this gap in experience, which no amount of my "immersion" in the Black Community will ever fill, that has led many to question my "right" to consider myself African-American.

Although my skin color has often shielded me from being the target of White racism, it has also created for me one of the most painful of human conditions - a lifetime of being misperceived and initially rejected by my own people. This is not an indictment; it is simply a testimonial to the remnants of White racism that have divided, and continue to divide the descendants of Africa in America.

African-Americans have shaped my self-concept since my childhood, and I have loved and been loved in the Black community all my life. So, when I am rejected by some of my African-American brothers and sisters, when my African-American husband is written off for "selling our" to marry me, and when my African-American Children are referred to as "mixed," I find myself wanting to apologize again for not being Black enough. I am a Black woman "becoming" who can never really arrive, and there is much pain and isolation in belonging to a family which often does not recognize my membership.