Girlfriends in Black & White
The truth about my friendships with white women
I don’t remember when I knew I was black or that it made any difference. My uncles had white girlfriends and my best friend was a little white boy named Steven–he had the best swing set in his yard! My girl cousins were all older than I was, so I didn’t hang out with them. While they were off doing teenagery stuff, I was making mud pies and hanging at the park with my boy cousins.
When I was nine years old, my family moved to Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. People weren’t just black or white; they were all these shades in between. My neighbors and classmates were from all over the world. Plus, so much of what we learned centered on the Hawaiian culture. Native Hawaiians are darker skinned with wide noses and wavy hair, so I felt kindred with them. I learned to hula, play the ukulele, and a few Hawaiian words. My first foreign language!
“That’s White People Stuff”
This new world I was in was not defined by black and white. The dark truth that I never used to admit was that I felt more comfortable around a group of white people than I did in a group of black people. Part of that was because of how I spoke, the things that interested me, and the things I wanted to do. At that time, the options for black people seemed very limited. Black people would tell me, “That’s white people stuff.” It pissed me off and made me feel limited.
My first time feeling any affinity to a group of black people was in fourth or fifth grade. During recess a number of us black girls would congregate around The Mound. I don’t remember how it started, but I remember all the beautiful shades of black girls standing around the mound taking turns stepping up to battle. Cheer-battle, that is.
The Mound
The Mound was where the black girls gathered on the playground to cheer-battle. We didn’t do flips or jazz hands like in the movies. No. We popped our hips, snapped our fingers, and rolled our necks. “My back is aching, my bra too tight. My booty shaking from left to right…” Straight sass, no chaser.
No white girls, Hawaiian girls, or any girl in between stepped up on The Mound. It was all black girls. It was our thing. We didn’t verbally or physically exclude the others but there seemed to be this unspoken understanding that this was our space.
The cadence. The movements. The attitude. The swagger. Nobody, and I mean nobody, could do those kinds of cheers like us. Yeah, us. I felt a part of that group, kindred. Here was the place to flaunt the attitude that seemed to be wrong everywhere else.
The Mound was the only place that I had any relationship to other black girls, at that point in my life. My close friends were all white. As much as I loved my friends, I recognize now that even among them I felt like an outsider at times.
Here was the place to flaunt the attitude that seemed to be wrong everywhere else.
My Hair
At a sleepover with my white girlfriends — I was the only black girl — they put shaving cream in my hair. If anyone else had been the first to fall asleep, they would have done the same thing. So, they couldn’t understand why I got so pissed off and walked home in the middle of the night. They didn’t know that getting my hair to “snap back” would take a good day or two. They didn’t know what a Jheri Curl was and I didn’t explain it because it was just a reminder that my hair was different than theirs.
In middle school, my friend Erin perfected her bangs by using copious amounts of Rave hairspray. As my friends spent hours in the mirror crimping and spraying their hair, I just watched. My hair was not like theirs. They didn’t know what to do with my hair, and honestly neither did I. Having a Leisure Curl (I upgraded from the Jheri Curl) made styling and hair care easy, but it also kept me ignorant of how to make magic with my hair.
Other differences during those middle school years was the music to which I gravitated. The posters on the wall in my bedroom included New Kids on the Block and New Edition, but my white girlfriends never listened to the latter. My mixed tapes included Bon Jovi, Cindy Lauper, Salt-n-Pepa, and LL Cool J, but they weren’t allowed to listen to rap music.
High School in Savannah, Georgia
It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that I connected with other black girls again. Fate dropped me in the deep south at a historically and predominantly black high school, Alfred E. Beach High School in Savannah, GA. It was also my first time having mostly black teachers. Prior to attending Beach High School, I had only had three black teachers–first grade, third grade, and eighth grade.
It was at Beach High School that I learned aspects of the Black American culture that I had only ever seen on television–like the competitiveness of marching bands. I also learned that being a predominantly black school didn’t mean all the negative things that I’d been taught to expect on the news. My classes were filled with brilliant black students who worked to achieve just as much as their white classmates. I had teachers who created spaces for their students — all students — to flex their intellectual wings. I was no longer one of the few black students in gifted and advanced classes.
My Sister-Friends
During my sophomore year, I began a friendship with a group of friends who would become my lifelong sister-friends. These girls taught me how to be confident in my skin — and size. They taught me how to make magic with my hair–like using a microwave to curl weave for a ponytail (aka rodded ponytail). With them, I was able to use both “$10 words” and slang without judgement. I learned to relax my speech and talk a little less proper–and not see it as a bad thing. With them, I could be a full spectrum of nerdy to ratchet with full acceptance.
If I’m honest, I don’t know that my relationships with white women were ever as honest and deep. Especially as an adult. There is always this thing in the back of mind that steers from saying or doing certain things. In the past few years, I would even say there is a distrust there. Like, if it ever came down to a true decision I know that my white friends would not have my back.
Broken Heart,Walls Built
One relationship was forever cracked during the kneeling controversy. A white girl friend who I called sister, basically said she couldn’t support the protest because her stepfather was a police officer. I tried to explain to her that support of either didn’t have to exclude support of the other. Her stance also made me question where that left me. If she could not stand against police brutality because of her stepfather, did that mean if my son was a victim she’d stand against him in support of the police?
At a church breakfast–where I was the only black person–a white church member said she couldn’t vote for Hillary because of her stance on abortion. So, I asked what about her stance on the living, people actually already here in the world? The fact that she cared more about the rights of an unborn child than she did about black, Hispanic, and women's’ lives made me distrust her. Our small group gatherings never felt the same. Prior to that, being the only black person hadn’t bothered me.
Hearing her heart broke mine. And it added to the wall.
Understanding Found Elsewhere
But my black girlfriends understood my tears over Tamir Rice and Trayvon Martin. They understood my support and indictment of law enforcement. They understood my fear upon hearing about Sandra Bland and thinking about my own attitude. They understood my alarm watching a police officer body slam a bikini-clad black teenage girl.
White Women, Corporate America
There was a time in my life when I would have agreed that racism no longer existed. That rose-colored view was shattered when I entered corporate America and saw the nuances of white womanhood. Everyone knows about the boys’ network, but any person of color would be misguided and delusional if they believe that white women are their allies. What I have observed is that the people who benefit most from diversity initiatives are white women.
I have witnessed white women getting jobs because their “daddy” drank well with some executive or was best friends with someone who had influence. I have witnessed a grown white woman cry at work about moving her desk–and the executive spoke to whomever was in charge and stopped them from making her move her desk. There were times when a new white woman on the team was invited to places that I, who had been on the team significantly longer, was not invited to attend.
The Good, The Bad, And The Indifferent
Frances Harper, a poet and activist in the late 1800s, in her speech We Are All Bound Up said:
“I do not believe that white women are dew-drops just exhaled from the skies. I think that like men they may be divided into three classes, the good, the bad, and the indifferent. The good would vote according to their convictions and principles; the bad, as dictated by preju[d]ice or malice; and the indifferent will vote on the strongest side of the question, with the winning party…I tell you that if there is any class of people who need to be lifted out of their airy nothings and selfishness, it is the white women of America.”
That was in 1866. Those same frustrations were voiced in the 60s and 70s by Black women who stood alongside white women, but who felt that white women never stood beside them. Fast forward to the 2016 election and you have the same sentiment expressed. My personal experience along with what I have seen played out socially and politically have built a wall of distrust when it comes to white women in general. There are those among my friend groups who have shown themselves to be true allies.
There is indeed a magic between us and within us that others cannot understand.
We Are Our Best Advocates
While I do hope that my trust in white women will be restored, I am grateful for moments in my youth like The Mound and Beach High School that taught me the beauty, depth, and necessity of my relationship to other black women.
Too often we are left to cry and bear the burden of sexism, racism, classism and so much more. We are our best advocates, support, and cheerleaders. My girls have spoken life into me when I needed it. They have loved my babies. They have been my wheels and brought me meals. They have witnessed my tears–from both joy and sorrow. There is indeed a magic between us and within us that others cannot understand.
Originally posted as part of the Pass The Mic: BIPOC Voices on the Native Nomad Life blog.
Author’s Note №1
You can show support and support my java habit by buying me a cup of coffee.
Author’s Note №2
It would mean the world to me if you would stop by to view my photography gallery.
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Jenita Lawal is a writer, traveler, amatuer photographer, entrepreneur and mother. After 20+years living the American Dream, she sold everything and packed her suitcases to pursue the life of her dreams. She lives abroad in Mexico with her three teenage boys and loves exploring whenever there’s an opportunity. She’s on Instagram @jlawal_atw.
