Tweezy, the Early Years: Racial Identity
Posted on 22nd May 2007 by antuan goodwin
I wasn’t always proud of my African-American heritage. When I was a kid, I didn’t want to be black. I wasn’t ashamed of my color. I didn’t know about racism. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be “black”. Seeing how I am black, you can see how this was a bit of an issue…
Wait, let’s start at the beginning…
Who am I?
I don’t believe that anyone is born cognizant of their racial identity, but at some point (whether you realize it or you have to be told) a person has to come to terms with who they are. I fell into the latter category, someone had to tell me.
I don’t know exactly where I first got the idea that “black” existed or that I wasn’t black. Perhaps it had something to do with my personality being different from the rest of the kids in my neighborhood. Maybe it was because I had lighter skin, green eyes and blond hair. Maybe my grandmother said something about somebody being too dark. Maybe it was that I identified with the white characters in the books I read and the shows I watched. I don’t remember why I thought black was such a bad thing. I don’t know because I don’t remember, but I do know that at some point I learned that there was a difference between black and not-black and that I’d assumed that I was was in the “not-black” category.
When I drew pictures of myself, I drew a white child. I referred to my classmates as “those black kids.” I was different from them in my mind’s eye. This couldn’t possibly end well for young Tweezy.
The Truth Hurts
My mother very curtly put an end to that nonsense. (She loves to tell this story to my friends.) One day, after I’d explained to her that “a black girl pulled my blond hair,” my very startled mom explained to me that I was, in fact, a Negro. What?! Nooo!
I don’t want to say that I was devastated, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t old enough to really be devastated or to understand what was going on, but I was disappointed. I don’t know why. I don’t feel that I should have been, but some part of me had either been taught or had decided that I didn’t want to be black.
Being armed with this new knowledge of my racial identity didn’t really change me that much. I didn’t really stop thinking that I was different. A switch wasn’t suddenly flipped that caused me to identify with black culture. The fact that this was even an issue is strange because I’ve lived my whole life in a house/neighborhood full of black people! My brother grew up in the same house as I did and he never seemed to have any of these conflicts.
To be continued…
Bear in mind, that all of this is occurring during the first half of elementary school. This isn’t even the good part! As time passed and I grew into my awkward teen years, I grew more confused and isolated. Of course, eventually I came to terms with my issues (so much so that I co-founded a blog about black culture and issues, LOL.) But I’m out of time, so I’ll revisit this topic tomorrow.
Note: This entry was reposted over on my other blog, brilliantbrown. I think it’s personal enough to fit here, but relevant enough to the black issues we discuss over there. Hence, the double post. This has nothing to do with me being too lazy to write 2 articles.
Hi son, I know that you never liked me sharing that story (not realizing that you were black). I laughed when I actually saw it in writing. “He’s my different child” is what I would and still say. I’m sure that you have wanted to ask: Different from whom? My response when you were young would have been: different from me, your father, your brother, other family members and what was considered a black child in general. I was always asked: Whose child is he? Why does he talk so proper? Was he raised in the same house with his brother and you? And lastly, is his father white? You see, society categorizes us and we unconsciously do the same to ourselves. I can remember when you were in middle school and were ostracized/ridiculed/picked-on by other students for how you spoke and for being in the gifted program. The expectation was for a black boys/males to be good in sports and not academics. The solution for the teachers was for you to get better in sports or participate for that matter. I can also remember arguing with your P.E. teacher in the principals’ office (after you were injured during his class) and shouted “where is it written that black children have to speak a certain way, play sports or be less intelligent”. He (a white teacher) couldn’t answer, but justified his actions by saying “kids will be kids and if he (speaking of you) wants to fit in then he needs participate in sports and not be a nerd”. Being a mom and having someone call my child a name caused me to lose my temper. I said a few choice words to him, grabbed you by the hand and stormed out and went to the Board of Education and took more action.
Now, when I say “he is my different child” it’s said in a different way. I am proud of the fact that you have always stayed true to yourself and did not conform to the way society decided that you should be. God made you the way he wanted you to be. You knew that, but I had to learn it. I am proud of you and love you very much. I am looking forward to the rest of the article. Mom
