The ugly duckling

Part Two

High school. This period of time created a tender mold of who I would turn out to be. I made the best friends of my life, all of whom had a large effect on the person I am now. Going to boarding school was not the experience that 90% of the population believes. No, I wasn’t forced to go because I was a bad child, and no, it wasn’t like The Pacific Coast Academy in Zoey 101 (though I definitely wish that was the case). Instead, it was a continuation of the middle school culture that I was now used to. The people were the same and not once did I ever feel like I stood out. My school was always described as some perfect little bubble that differed greatly from “the real world”. While none of us kids ever knew what that really meant, we knew that walking along the sidewalk with kitten ears and a tail in the middle of the day was weird and unacceptable in “normal society”. The “community”, which was the only word that seemed to be capable of describing this safe haven, fostered the growth of many close relationships. It was so good, in fact, that no one viewed each other differently. Kids from different backgrounds were just kids and your sexual orientation, whatever it was, was acceptable, and most of the time unnoticed. This acceptance and colorblindness was amazing, and of all the places in the world I’d choose to model the future after, it would be that place. I can honestly say that the students who graduated from there are some of the most tolerant people I know.

My race. What did it mean to be black? I shared a heritage with so many people of my color, a cringeworthy past, and as most of us hoped, a bright future. I remember making jokes with peers who may have come from the same background. We talked about childhood punishments, which most often included a belt (don’t worry, I wasn’t abused), and laughed at the Timmy Turner’s who were simply told to go to their rooms and were forced to endure two whole days without xbox live. Now, of course these kinds of conversations were always open, and my friends from different cultures, even ones in America, eagerly participated in them. This welcoming feeling opened the door for some questionable statements, however, and I’ll never forget how it started. “Yo, can I call you my (insert “n word” but the one ending in an “a” and not “er”). I felt the internal temperatures of my body skyrocket, my heart-rate rose, and my jovial face transformed into an angry one. “Absolutely not!” “But the black kids say it all the time”, was his response. And while I understand what my friend was saying, it didn’t matter. We, as black people, were treated horribly and called an offensive word for the entirety of our stay in America, and now that offensive word is a part of our vernacular that no one else can use. This is essentially how that kind of conversation always goes, although it is a questionable defense of you ask me. From that point on, my skin color became relevant again, and the omnipresent “kumbaya” began to fade. Over time, the “because I’m black” thought became increasingly prevalent until some of the playful jokes about race became unamusing. We were all friends, however, and I know they meant no harm, so why be bothered?And then Trayvon Martin was shot and killed. Homogeneity returned.

All around the country, people of color were protesting, rioting, and gathering over the incredibly dissapointing trial of the deplorable actions of George Zimmerman. If there was one event that finally opened the eyes of millenials to race in America, this was it. I felt angry, as if I personally knew Trayvon, because that could have been me. Now, let me make that statement as clear to my friends who always hear black people say that but don’t truly get it. If you know me, you probably don’t picture a menacing, scary person. Now change my smiling face to a stoic one, put a hoodie over my head, increase the speed of my nonchalant gait, and I’m no longer just Chris. And surprisingly, I still come off that way in khaki shorts, a pastel colored shirt and boats (I’ve asked). Who knew.

Going back home after his death, my mother took us all to the rally in downtown DC. Homo-(you know the word by this point). The streets were filled with black people from all different backgrounds and while I should’ve felt completely at home there, I didn’t. Remember where I went to school? I listened to the speakers there anyway and was moved by everything they said, and all of a sudden the volume of the muted homogeneity began to rise. I went home and made a Facebook status about my reaction to the whole case because where else can you let tons of people know how you really feel? The status was greeted with many “likes” and I felt like people were understanding how I was feeling. And then a close, white friend of mine commented “Go get em, Chris!” I knew he was joking and not taking me seriously, yet anger did not great me. Embarrassment did. I knew that colorblindness was the real enemy here, and so I brushed it off.