Becoming Colorblind by Kayla

Becoming Colorblind by Kayla - April 2014 Scholarship Essay

Imagine this scene for me if you will. It is a hot July evening, and my uncle is hosting his annual 4th of July barbecue. The street is overwhelmingly littered with cars, the air is thick with the smell of charred ribs, and the deep base of the stereo reverberates up and down the block. Off in the distance, you can hear the occasional pop of a fire-cracker that was accidentally set off. The house is stuffed floor to rafter with invited guest as well as numerous party-crashers, some of which are spilling into the front yard. Despite all the noise and commotion, I feel completely at ease. I am sitting at a table, playing a game of spades with some girls from around the neighborhood. With the occasional joke and a cool demeanor, I’m very optimistic. Maybe tonight I’ll pass. Maybe tonight they won’t find out. But eventually, someone drops the fatal question,” What school do ya’ll go to?”

Immediately the other girls start blurting out familiar names like Cedar Grove, Arabia Mountain, McNair, and Towers. Each response is met with the eager nodding of heads and the occasional comment of, “Oh! I know someone there!” Then, it is my turn. As I look around at all their faces, eagerly expecting a familiar answer, my heart sinks. Staring at the floor, I mumble, “Erhm.. I go to..um..Woodward Academy”. The silence around me is deafening. I don’t have to look up to see all the sneers and hostile looks that I am receiving. One girl scoffs, “Woodward Academy! You can’t get no whiter than that hunh!?” I want desperately want to explain, to convince them that I am still one of them, that I belong. But, it is too late; I can already feel their view of me changing. You see, in their minds, the name Woodward Academy conjures up images of preppy, rich white children. Because I attended this large private school in Atlanta, that made me one of those preppy, rich white children as well. I wasn’t; I had skin as dark as theirs. However, because I didn’t go to the predominantly black schools of DeKalb County like they did, I was automatically branded as the enemy, a traitor. It wasn’t just the school that I went to that made me different. It was also how I talked; I rarely used slang and didn’t speak Ebonics. It was how I dressed; I often wore the neatly pressed blue and khaki uniform that my school requires. Ultimately, it was my whole personality that was at odds with what society says is the correct way for a stereotypical black girl to behave.
In Mishna Wolff’s memoir “I’m Down”, Wolff relays comical stories of her childhood and her struggle to find acceptance as one of the only white girls living in a predominantly black neighborhood. Wolff explains how she would do everything to try and fit in- from changing how she acted to changing how she looked- even if that meant deviating from her true self. The further the neighborhood kids pushed her away, the harder Mishna fought to be accepted as one of them. While reading this book, it felt as though I was looking in a mirror. Though Mishna and I did not share the same skin color, we shared the same problem; we didn’t fit the stereotype. Mishna’s white skin prevented her from being whole-heartedly accepted by her black neighbors. My “white life-style” prevented me from being accepted by my black friends as well. Before reading this book, I was convinced that this was a bad thing, something to be ashamed of. However, witnessing page- by -page Mishna’s maturation and acceptance of herself made me begin to see how flawed this ideology was. Ultimately in the book, Mishna comes to the realization that she will not be happy until she learns to be herself. She begins to involve herself with swimming, an activity she actually enjoys, and make friends who accept her for who she is. Her decision to be her own person, regardless of stereotypes, helped me discover that the world is not simply black and white (both figuratively and literally). I do not have to act a certain way simply because my skin is a certain shade, and I should not let the hue of my surroundings dictate how I behave. I will admit that this realization did not come all at once, but over a span of years. However, that realization may not have occurred without the candid, genuine stories within Wolf’s memoir. Because of Mishna, I’ve become someone who is very confident with their identity, someone who embraces and celebrates the fact that they do not fit the racial mold that society has set out for them.