Confessions of a Safe Black Friend: "Am I White or am I Black? What kind of question is that?"
“Are you White or are you Black?”
I often think of the day that Yvonna posed that question to me.
I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, living with my family on South Lee Circle in the small-ish town of Blytheville, Arkansas. Yvonna was one of our neighbors. I don’t remember very much about her. I remember that she had an older brother named Marcus. I remember that her family lived across the street from us and two houses to the right. but I don’t remember much else. Yvonna, though close in proximity, wasn’t a childhood friend, per se. My siblings and I really only had one or two family friends on the street where we lived. Even though she lived just across the street and two doors down, Yvonna’s and my day to day life experiences were quite different. We might as well have belonged to two different worlds. I was a member of a Black family, sure, but that was where the ostensible similarities ended. My family was…unique for a small-ish town in Arkansas (and also probably like anywhere on planet earth except maybe the Duarte household. Shoutout to my cousins). We were homeschoolers. We attended a predominately White church. My parents voted Republican. And most of the people we spent most of our time also fit those criteria…except…you know…they were White.
Obviously.
Yeah, those characteristics did not describe any of the other families in our neighborhood.
“Are you White or are you Black?”
This wasn’t the first time Yvonna had interrogated an aspect of my identity. Another of her favorite queries: “Why do you talk so proper?”
To be fair, I had grown accustomed to getting this question from pretty much everyone, all the time.
Black.
White.
Young.
Old.
Peers
Adults.
Sometimes the question was asked with tone of awe and wonder. Not when Yvonna asked. When she said those words, I heard the ring of critique in her voice. Before I could rattle off one of my prepared speeches filed away and ready to answer this question, Yvonna intercepted. She decided to take her questioning to the next level.
I’m talking existential, baby.
Something about me was evidently odd, out of place, and also, I sensed, more than a little off-putting to her and she wanted to drill down to the heart of the matter.
“Are you White or are you Black?”
The question made me feel trapped. Yvonna had offered me two doors and two doors only. She looked me in the eyes, hands on her hips, awaiting my answer.
I hesitated, holding my breath, legitimately confused by the question.
Surely the answer was obvious, right? I mean, if a random White person walked by they’d look over and see two Black girls staring each other down. But the answer wasn’t obvious to Yvonna. And in that moment it felt like I needed to prove myself to her. My little brain worked overtime to lay out the argument in my favor.
My parents were Black, right? Yes. Phew, okay; a solid fact to start from.
My grandparents were Black. Another point in the Black column. My great—okay, Beth, think of something other than all your relatives.
We celebrate Black History Month every year. Oh yeah, feeling Blacker by the second.
Ummm…that’s my list? Might be time to start backing away toward the house.
I’m chuckling a little with this retelling as I realize now what I didn’t then; that what my neighbor wanted to know about me had nothing to do with the color of my skin or the origins of my family, or the holidays that I observed. She wanted to know if I was like her or not. She wanted to know if I identified as one of ‘us’ or as one of ‘them’. She knew what I knew. That the great White world beyond South Lee Circle and Blytheville, Arkansas would open its doors a little wider for a girl like me who ‘talked proper’ and demonstrated an ease of existence amidst all the norms and customs passed down from our Puritan forefathers. I knew what she knew. That a girl like her, with deep connections to family, culture, and community would be forced to fall on back on those resources when other doors slammed shut in her face because…mmm…she seemed a little too Black. Even at a such a young age I had subconsciously embraced certain beliefs about myself and my family and ‘other Black people’ that must have crept up to the surface and stuck to everything that I touched; everyone that I encountered. I had adopted the approval of well-meaning White people as a badge of honor. Remember all those awed “you talk so proper” comments from earlier? Yeah, I used to hear those as compliments. Cringe. My child’s brain had begun to make basic calculations about good and bad, worthy and unworthy, respectable and unacceptable based on a seriously flawed and fundamentally racist method of analysis. Yvonna had found me out many many years before I would begin to unravel all of this as I am now. So now I hear her question as more of a request for a password, a shibboleth. Yvonna had styled herself as a gatekeeper for Blackness in a world where the Black community was under constant assault.
“Are you White or are you Black?”
Now when I consider her question, I hear Yvonna asking “are you for me, us, the Black community as a whole? Or are you against us?”.
In some ways, Yvonna and I both had narrow views of Blackness because neither of our understandings made room for us both. We each embodied beliefs that excluded one another from our respective worlds. I don’t fault Yvonna for her defensive stance in the face of my ‘suspicious’ presentation of Blackness. Insular Black communities were forged in the crucible of oppression and necessity. It is not a trial easily forgotten. I hope that she learned to forgive me for being a confused child also trying to make her way in a confusing world.
“Are you White or are you Black?”
I’ve thought about Yvonna’s question often since that day many years ago. But, I’m not holding my breath any more trying to come up with perfect answers to any of the very tricky questions that present themselves on this path of self-discovery. I’m inhaling all the wonder
and magic
and beauty
and sorrow
and pain
and triumph
and laughter
and music
and seasoning
and creation
and power
and purpose that is Blackness.
I’m exhaling and unlearning all of the anti-blackness that is still deeply embedded in my psyche. And in the space between, I hold gratitude for the little girl who lived across the street and two doors down. Her question all those years ago was one of many that have guided me on this journey of understanding myself fully and completely as a Black woman today.