The reality of ‘coconutdom’ is the constant instability. The reality that there is no place for you until you take the addict’s first step an admit there is a problem. That you’re just not right. That you walk a tightrope atop the land mines of reality and truth. The truth that who and what you are doesn’t fit in a world devoid of gray. That your Othello piece will be flipped beyond your control or comfort. That this AND that are cute on a t-shirt, embraced as a way to increase ticket sales, or convenient mantra for change. But the truth is you have to be this OR that.
In The Whitest Black, I waxed stunnedoxtic about what it felt like to have the black people in my life tell me that I am not black enough. Until this weekend, I’d forgotten that not-just-brown people, too, carry litmus sticks for color comfort. That keeping a round peg out of the square hole maintains an order. A calm. Until it doesn’t.
It only stings when it comes from the folks I respect. The people who have gathered life’s in randomness and made a feast of possibility. That even though I have things they don’t, their fortunes looks so much more desirable. Appealing. Fascinating. This Woman is the center of the social scene. A snappier dressed Oz. She’s the one that connects the old with the new to make shiny, new liaisons. She’ll introduce the writers to the directors, the ingenue to the sugar daddy, the potter to the distributor. She’s innovative, independent, resilient, sweet. And she pissed me off in a way that no 4 words can do-
What color are you?
For some reason this question often surfaces in the context of music, but will occasionally rear its stupid little head in relation the way I talk, who I date, how I dress. Yes, how I dress. Apparently draping a sweater on my shoulders or resting sunglasses atop my head are the antithesis of the civil rights movement. My ancestors were fighting Jim Crow, Ralph Lauren, and Grunge. The fight was not for me to embrace society, but to choose to march in the stereotype parade.
The Woman asked if I knew a song by particular artist and I said, no, there wasn’t a ton of rock in my home and college life was inundated by Pearl Jam, Counting Crows, and Tori Amos. “Pearl Jam? What color are you??” Holy fuckety-fuck. Did our country not just elect a bi-racial president? Why on God’s green earth am I still fielding this rhetorical question? Because my real answer “What color am I? You wanna take a closer look at my fist and see?” is never an appropriate response.
I remember when The Question was asked in college, in my sorority. At the time, I was The Only out of 95 girls. And I took some pride in it. In knowing that my sorority was color blurry. That I bonded instantly with the little Strawberry Shortcake of a girl who only saw brown in her music, her friends, and her men. She and I were in our room practicing a dance we’d perform in the club later that evening when another ’sister’ came in asked The Question to her. Although it wasn’t directed at me, I was certainly in the splash zone. That’s when I stopped believing the embroidered pillows espousing that chance made us sisters, our hearts made us friends. Chance made us sisters but your lump of coal of a heart made me want to kick the sister off your hood.
I can’t really put a finger on what about The Question digs into me so. So much that it resulted in my leaving early that night. The Helpful Hubster says maybe she thought she was making a joke, that we have the kind of relationship where quirks become the mortar for the brick wall of friendship. The kind that can’t be huffed, puffed, and blown down. But it’s not. It’s the kind of thing you say to someone to put them in a place. To establish a boundary, a difference, a this is me and THAT is you. And I don’t appreciate it.
Will I talk to her again? I don’t know. If I do, it will be cursory. Superficial. Surfacy. For me, that is one of those terminal questions in a “What If” book. A deal breaker. Because I’ve seen her unguarded and real and I have all the reality I need from strangers.
One of my dearest friends in university had a black father and a white mother. She was a lovely coffee-with-cream colour, and people were sometimes uncomfortable around her, because they couldn’t figure out “what she was”. (Like it mattered.) They would haltingly try to gather clues without being too obvious about it, but we could tell what they were up to — was she aboriginal? From India? They almost never guessed correctly.
We took to telling people that we were sisters. They would look at us, laugh nervously, and say that they would never have thought that, because we were…uh…
“You mean because I’m BROWN?” my friend would say.
I had a guy at a bar argue my being Italian once because I’m so pale. Then he argued that I wasn’t hairy enough. That I wasn’t HAIRY enough. Who knew all the effort I had put into shaving my legs and not having a fucking mustache was going to call my background into question? Idiot.
Not that my story in any way compares, it just reminded me of him grabbing me and questioning me about my lack of hair.
I don’t even look at color. I look at the person as a whole.
As long as you’re nice to me, can look me in the eye and engage in a halfway decent conversation OR witty banter with me, I’d buy ya a drink. We’d be buds..especially if you make me laugh.
It really boils down to personality in my eyes.
One of my favorites (aside from the comment, “oooo, white girl can dance!” fuck you…no really… fuck. you.) happens when I tell people my father is a Buddhist. 90% of people look at me, squint a little and say, I kid you not, “but you don’t look asian.”
*headdesk*
hmm… sending you an email…
probably the minority opinion here, but what if it was a joke? one that bombed obviously, but maybe meant innocently?
ummm I think the “What color am I? You wanna take a closer look at my fist and see?” response is completely appropriate.