This Weird Girl

I have light colored skin, but I’m not white. According to our race-obsessed society I’m a white person. But if I hold a piece of copy paper up to my skin it’s obvious I’m not white. I have a more of a pinkish-brown antique white shade. Whatever.

If you clicked this post because of the title, it worked. I put out the bait! Woohoo! But I really am going to talk about race; sharing little tidbit memories of how I am so not racist that it kind of gets me in trouble.

Schenectady, NY

In 1999 I got my first salary-with-benefits job. Up until then I didn’t have health insurance because it was still a pay-as-you-go system, when going to the doctor for a sinus infection or ingrown toenail removal cost $60. When I got my first job as a public school music teacher I was handed a very overwhelming packet of information and told to choose a healthcare provider. So I picked the nearest clinic and got on with my life. Four months later I got really, really sick. When the doctor saw me for the first time, she smiled and squinted:

Are you sure you’re in the right place?

This is such-and-such clinic, right?

Yes. But how did you end up coming here?

It was one of the options on my insurance policy. I didn’t know what I was doing, so I just picked a place close to my house. Why?

It’s just…., people like you don’t often come to this clinic.

Well, you’re a doctor, right?

Yes.

And then she got back to working her magic. And I got back to work when I recovered.

Apparently this 40-something black doctor in an inner-city, government funded clinic in the low-income side of the city wasn’t used to seeing a 23-year-old white female professional. And the whole idea of it didn’t even hit my radar until 15 years later. As far as I was concerned, a doctor is a doctor. And I needed one.

Newport, RI

I married my best friend in May, 2001. We spent our first six months together enjoying the Summer in Newport, RI, while he attended SWOS. We toured the fancy mansions, swam on the beach, took out a boat, and went snorkeling. One day we were with our wonderful mutual friend, who is almost as white as copy paper. Somehow we got on the subject of the census, and she mentioned she checked “Caucasian” because “Pastey White Girl” wasn’t an option. I chimed in, “I checked Caucasian.” My husband casually added, “I checked “other.”

“Why’d you check ‘other’?” I asked.

Because I’m not white.

You’re not white!?

Do I look white to you?

*I hold my white forearm against his deeply tanned, dark brown forearm”

*dumbfounded* So that’s why my aunt sent me a book recommendation about bi-racial marriages in my bridal card! I thought it was just because of your last name!

It’s only because people from India are historically considered to be white. And I don’t act Indian, because I’m raised in the U.S. and my mother is white. (his South Indian dad is as black as an African American)

Wow. I didn’t marry a white guy? *pause* *shrug* Oh well!

We’ve been married three months and you only just figured this out?

Milford, VA

Sometime in 2008. I needed a trim. I had butt-length hair that hadn’t seen scissors in almost six years, so it was time. I just walked right into the nearest salon, where two black women were sitting and socializing. They both looked up as I swung the door open.

Do you have time for a haircut?

Yes, Ma’am.

Yeah, I just need a few inches off the bottom.

Are you sure you’re in the right place?

Yeah, why? Do you know how to cut white people’s hair?

Oh yeah, sure. I can do that!

It never even crossed my mind that there was such a thing as a black salon and a white salon. A haircut is a haircut. But I’m sure it gave those ladies something to talk about!

Mount Pleasant, VA

My eight-year-old daughter, blonde hair and blue eyes, had a best friend who was black. Her friend spent the night and I got them matching jogging pants. When the friend’s grandmother came to pick her up, she invited our daughter to one of their family get-togethers; I guess it was a summer family reunion with friends, family, food, and a pool! She assured me there’d be no funny business, and she’d be watching those girls like a hawk. Sure, go ahead!

A year later, as her grandmother and I were sipping hot mushroom coffee at her kitchen table, she finally confessed she was shocked that I let my daughter go with her to her family’s reunion.

Why were you shocked? I trust you.

Yeah, but with all those relatives… a little white girl…. with all these black men?

Uhhhhhh… are any of them dangerous?

Absolutely not! But it’s just not common.

Well, that stuff doesn’t bother me. People are people.

Bremerton, WA

2003. I was riding the bus on the Navy base where all the family housing was. A lady and her little girl were sitting across the way from me. As is my normal disposition, I just randomly started talking to her and somehow she ended up at my house to hang out. I invited her and her husband and kids to come over for dinner. The men (my husband an O1 and her husband an E2) swapped salt stories of deployments and ship stats while the women talked about women stuff. Eventually we all ended up in the living room over an exciting game of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em and listening to Michael Jackson on the vintage record player.

At the end of the night the dads were buckling the kids in the car when my new friend leaned in and whispered, “This was so fun. My husband was worried about coming, and I told him you weren’t like those other officer wives. You guys are just like us! And he really enjoyed himself.”

Amherst, VA

I have a best friend. Yeah, she’s black. And she loves to introduce me to her black friends. And it’s always the same response: I told you Angela was cool!

Hey Angela! Tell him your black joke! (Black people love this black joke)

Okay! Hahahah! So, there was this white family in the deep south. It was the little boy’s 5th birthday. He was sitting at the kitchen table eyeing the cake his mother made- his favorite! Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. While Mom had her back turned to get candles, the little boy stuck his hands in the cake and smeared it all over his face and arms. “Look, Mommy! I’m a black man!” Ohhhh, the mother was pretty upset and sent the little boy to see his father for a reprimand.

Look Daddy, I’m a black man!

The father scolded the little boy and spanked his butt, hard. “Wipe that hideous stuff off your face! Go see your grampa!!”

Look Grampa! I’m a black man!

The old grampa smacked the little boy across the face. “Not in this house, boy! Go see your mother!”

The little boy slumped into the kitchen. The mother was still angry to see the boy covered in chocolate.

So, you didn’t wash that chocolate off yet. Hmph. Did you go see your father?

Yes, Ma’am.

Did you go see your grampa?

Yes, Ma’am.

And did you learn your lesson?

Yes, Ma’am.

What did you learn?

I learned I only been a black man for three minutes and I already hate you white people!