When Race Becomes Real: Black and White Writers Confront Their Personal Histories

Talking White

© Jon Rou 71 Talking White Kimberly Springer Sometimes I am jealous of biracial people. “Ah ha!” everyone yelps, “Finally, someone admits it!” Well, there is, of course, a catch: my feelings of envy are not rooted in self-hatred, internalized racism, or pining for any illusions of privilege that might come along with the “right” hair or skin tone. Rather, I am jealous that biracial folks in the United States are pardoned their apparent confusion when it comes to white and black culture. Speaking as an outsider to the struggles of biracial people, I can only guess what kinds of negotiations go on in daily life as they try to register on some mythical scale of black authenticity. As an African American, feminist, post–civil rights, Generation X, Boho, affirmative action beneficiary, however, I am rarely allowed any excuse for my confusion or frustration as I try to connect the many strands of my life that are rooted in being pushed to succeed—no, excel—in a white-dominated society, while making sure I “stay black.” 72 K i m b e r ly S p r i n g e r For me, race has always been constructed, never defining my essence, yet defining me completely. I grew up assimilating into white culture, not particularly caring to hear the same story about Harriet Tubman for Black History Month. My goal, as it was defined for me by my position as a “gifted and talented” black girl in an incredibly white high school, was to excel in spite of my race, never because of it. I was to do everything twice as well as the white kids, because they expected me to fail. Yet, as I stand today with a freshly bestowed doctorate degree, I am trying to come to terms with the costs of that assimilation and of my position as a black feminist in a culture of “posts”: post-feminist, post–civil rights, postmodern. I allude to the costs that are rarely spoken of in black communities, but always understood. It is like the black version of “the problem that has no name.” I cannot name it because I have rarely heard others speak plainly about it. Several works of fiction by black women, such as Andrea Lee’s Sarah Phillips, Kim McLarin’s Taming It Down, and Veronica Chamber ’s Mama’s Girl, have alluded to the dissonance that black people feel when they are, in a sense, caught between black and white culture. When they enjoy old-school slow jams, but can just as easily get, like, totally stoked listening to Led Zeppelin. When they have an affinity for the Tom Joyner Morning Show, but also pledge loyally to their public radio station because they cannot imagine the commute to work without National Public Radio. When they love seeing African print cloth on a brother or sister but, quite frankly, feel like a cultural tourist when they attempt to wear mud cloth. I used to relate the circumstances of my birth as some sort of badge of black authenticity when I felt my blackness threatened. Born in 1970, I lived the first two years of my life in East St. Louis, Illinois, which was, in the media and most likely in reality, a more-than-roughand -tumble sister city to St. Louis, Missouri. It was more than the other side of the tracks: it was across the tracks, across the Eades Bridge, and across the river. The city boasts the race riot of 1917, a failing infrastructure , out-of-sight unemployment (spurred by the mass exit of major employers such as Sears, J. C. Penney, and Kmart), extreme poverty, and a general hopelessness that overshadows a history of black pride and self-determination. T a l k i n g W h i t e 73 Yet, to my young mind, East St. Louis was “down South,” where my grandmother Teresa carried butterscotch and peppermints in her purse and loved me more than anyone in the whole wide world—or so she had a way of making all of her grandbabies think and feel. It was the home of my cousin Trina, my favorite Uncle Sam, my play-grandmother Miss Harris, a summer friend named “Pinky,” and some of the best homemade ice cream on the planet—the stuff worth sitting through a long, hot sermon for. I could not understand why my parents...