Actual Space: "As the Adjective..." by Karen Ladson
“What do you mean, I’m not like other Black people?”
"Actual Space" is a monthly column for black voices. It is a forum to tell your story, and answer questions on a variety of topics concerning how one copes with being black, what concerns you about race, what you wished you learned, and what gives you hope for the future. Edited and curated by Robert Lashley, for NAILED Magazine. To obtain a prompt or question to write for "Actual Space," email Robert at robert@nailedmagazine.com.
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My parents prepared me for the inevitability of racism covertly. They avoided conversations about snarling dogs and fire hoses, choosing instead to emphasize the importance of a good education. I loved learning, and I loved school. I didn't realize, though, that this would create conflict—both external and internal. What they hadn't prepared me for was the dichotomy of being Black, but not Black enough.
After school ass whuppings became a regular part of my week. Whenever the teacher called on me, I knew I was in for it. It wasn't cool to get the answers right. It wasn't Black. I learned to pack up my books at 2:50, to slip out of the side door of the schoolhouse, to force my asthmatic lungs to work long enough to take the shortcut through the sandbox to avoid Leslie Brown's fists.
I was proud of being Black. I just wasn't good at Black things. I couldn't jump double dutch. Every time I tried, my face and arms were striped with welts. My fingers weren't deft enough to master cornrows. I preferred to read over anything else, cutting play dates short to lie on my bedroom floor with a Scholastic book. I didn't speak like other Black kids, even though I tried to. So when I was accused of trying to be white, it stung more than the jump rope.
I didn't want to be white. What I craved was the freedom that was afforded to white people, the ability to be anything you wanted to be without question. None of the Caucasians I knew had to justify anything, from the clothes they wore, the music they listened to, or the grades they earned. I never wanted to sacrifice Blackness for that. I wanted Blackness in addition to that.
As a teenager, I hung out with white kids primarily, not because I preferred them, but because the things I loved were deemed white. Back then, I believed that the commonality we shared, whether it was punk rock, heavy metal, or horror movies, transcended race. But there was always a test that I had to pass in order to prove that I was a true fan, that I was worthy. Name all five members of Aerosmith. Tell me what movies Rob Bottin did special effects for.
Many of my friendships with white people were contingent upon me buying into respectability politics. I began to mistake statements like “you're not like other Black people,” as praise rather than outright racism. What I wanted, more than anything, was to be accepted for who I was. I downplayed the importance of my race in exchange for camaraderie, becoming complicit in my own oppression.
I saw Black as just another adjective: I was smart, funny, clumsy, introspective, sensitive, and kind as well. But once I understood that Blackness is the gauge by which everything is measured, I understood that I was both a nigger and an Oreo.
I wish I'd thrown questions in Leslie Brown's face rather than sand: Do you know who else liked to read? Phyllis Wheatley. Have you ever read her poetry?
I wish I'd turned the inquisitions back on the white kids: What do you mean, I'm not like other Black people? What do you think other Black people are like? Why would you say that to me?
Now I see Black as the adjective: Black woman, Black nerd, Black punk, Black enough.
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Header image courtesy of Caratoes. To view a gallery of her art, go here.
Karen Ladson is a poet, performer, curator and youth mentor who takes great pride in using art to empower disenfranchised and underrepresented writers. She is currently learning to cornrow.
