My new hairdo has achieved the desired effect in Oakland. I feel like I “blend in”, which was confirmed yesterday when a black man addressed me as “sistah”. I have also been asked the exclusively black question, “Where are your people from?” When I answer “Louisiana and Virginia”, I find less satisfaction in their response “Mine, too,” than in the realization that I have people!

The knowledge that I am the descendant of black slaves fills me with a certain pride that I can’t quite put my finger on. It goes against all logic. My forefathers a few generations ago probably did not feel the same way. Then again, they lived before hip-hop, Black History Month and Obama made blackness ultra-cool. For the first time I am beginning to understand the Afro-American thirst for anything pro-black; why there is BET but no WET, ”Jet “ magazine but no “Milky”. I have often wondered if those things served only to deepen the racial divide by drawing attention to the color of black people’s skin , but now I can see how things that are pro-black can contribute to healthy self-esteem by showcasing the beauty of ethnicity. White people don’t need that kind of promotion. They  do not know what it is like to live with a racial stigma. I certainly didn’t.

This weekend I am back in Orange County and for the first time here am sporting my new look. (Like a coward, last weekend I hid my hair with a scarf. No one wears corn rows in “the O.C.”) I went out last night to pick up some groceries. As I walked into the store where the very un-funky Herman’s Hermits were playing on the PA system, I became conscious of people looking at me a little longer than necessary, and they were not the lecherous stares of men. I was suddenly and painfully aware of being a minority. A group of white teenage boys walked in, and my mind flashed back to a Halloween night years ago when a mob of boys from the local high school ran amuck in their ritzy gated community, pulled people from their cars and beat them to a pulp just for fun. I shouldn’t be out by myself at night, I thought to myself.

It has often been a subject of hot debate if the fear of racism is simply paranoia. I admit that I have been skeptical when my black friends have claimed they were turned down from a job ‘because they were black’ or excluded from certain circles for that reason. There have been black electricians that work for Cameron’s company that would refuse work in Orange County ‘because of the racism there’. They didn’t even like driving through Orange County because of getting ‘dirty looks’ on the freeway. Whether their suspicions are warranted or not doesn’t matter. It is terrible to live with the knowledge that there are people out there who are racist, and since it is impossible to identify who or where they are, it always in the back of one’s mind.

At lunch with Karna in Berkeley the other day I related a story in which my nephew was laughing about being “white trash”. Karna nervously glanced over her shoulder at a couple of white men sitting near us, as if checking to see if they had heard me use the “W” word. I suddenly had the sensation of being caught between two worlds. I realized that, just as white people ought not use a certain other word, I had better watch my mouth!

I am beginning to understand Grandma Betty’s relief that I have not had to bear the burden of ‘wearing my skin’. I am now choosing to do so and, while having the time of my life, I am also discovering certain awful realities of it. As long as I am in Oakland where whites are outnumbered, I feel safe and comfortable with my color. But wherever else I go, I have this uncomfortable consciousness of the color of people’s skin. I find myself questioning people’s motives unnecessarily. The looks in the grocery store could have been simple curiosity, even admiration, but the knowledge that they could also have been accompanied by feelings of disdain filled me with unfathomable sadness, not for myself, but for my fellow humans of color who have to live with these thoughts day in and day out. In the end I will be able to ‘take off my skin’, pull out my corn rows and go back to blending with my white community. Others do not have that luxury. They live a lifetime with the demon of racism lurking just around the corner.

I write this now with a lump in my throat and the tune in my head, ”What the world needs now, is love, sweet love…” I look forward to the day when all humans will learn to see ourselves like different kinds of flowers, all different, but all beautiful. Really, we could all answer the question “Where are your people from?” with “Same place as yours. Earth.”

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