I knew what Diana meant. I felt very un-Black myself, even as my parents continued to insist I was Black, even as I tried to figure out what that meant and to be that person in this white town.
The only Black people I saw on any regular basis were members of my own family—my father and my four siblings who were now in their mid- to late thirties and had lives and families of their own. Like anyone in America, I was bombarded with negative media portrayal and stereotypes about Blacks. And those negative images helped me construct a sense of self.
From The Jeffersons, All in the Family, and Good Times, I knew that Black people seemed to be someone’s edgy, hip, funny friend who spoke in some kind of special jargon, who seemed either athletic, or to know how to dance well, or to be lazy, and who greeted other Blacks with a special handshake. From the news, I knew we were associated with poverty and crime. With my parents’ constant refrain about me being Black, I thought it was on me to be a great dancer, do my best not to appear to be lazy or badly behaved, and figure out that handshake.
While I was trying to construct this Black self in a completely white world, one day I overheard my mother talking to my visiting sister who was in her late thirties. “I wish Julie had more Black friends,” my mother said, sighing. I felt judged. Blamed even. Where was I to find Black friends in an all-white town? Did my own mother think I was prejudiced against Black people?
Was I?
She couldn’t have been blaming me, I now know. She was likely blaming herself, her inability to stand up to Daddy who made all the important decisions in our family life such as where we would live. Mom knew I needed Black friends and was confiding in my sister about it. But I was already feeling recalcitrant toward Blackness and my place in it. I heard in my mother’s words criticism that maybe I was avoiding Blacks on purpose. I heard in my mother’s words my own criticism of my self.