But I Don't Feel White

When you were fourteen, your scalp was burning, you left the cream on for two hours longer than the instructed forty-five minutes-you desperately needed this product to work. That night you almost had to go to the emergency room because you were blistering, bleeding and screaming.
When you were fifteen your hair turned orange.
When you were sixteen, your hair fell out in clumps in the shover.
When you were seventeen, you seriously considered shaving your head and buying a wig.

All this suffering because you wanted to be like Amy, the dance-team captain who sat in front of you in biology class...

-from The Sky Isn't Visible from Here

At salons, when the shampoo girls shampooed, they'd ask: Have you ever considered straightening your hair? Or the more frequent: Are you black? Hispanic? Mixed? My heritage has always vexed them. My skin too white. My hair too dark and coarse. They couldn't fathom the disconnect. And while I wondered how people think it appropriate to ask complete strangers for their personal history while they were simply paid to wash hair, I opened my eyes, stared up at their hair, so loose and flouncy, and considered strangling them with it. For years I feverishly pursued friendships with pretty blondes in hopes of skirting the edges; I was desperate to blend in. Yanked out of Brooklyn and its sea of beautiful, diverse color to Long Island - to a town devoid of color, a town that grew suspicious of anything other - will do that to you. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about my hair - it used to be that wearing my hair straight or curly was the difference between life and death. Although my mother's hair was thick (you could bury yourself in it), it was straight, fine. And my real father, well, he's the wildcard. The untold story.

Back to the matter at hand. Yesterday, I'm making small talk with my stylist, who, over the years, has become a very dear friend. She's nervous, practically has an anxiety attack when she tells me that she's booked a vacation the week my book goes on sale. She won't be able to straighten my hair for my first reading, my book party & she's so sorry. I wave her away; I tell her that it's okay, no big deal, and when we talk strategy, replacements, I blurt out: I just don't want some white girl doing my hair. She leans over and says: I don't mean to break the news, but we are white. We laugh and switch topics.

On the way home, something disturbed me and it was only when I came through my door and saw my book on the table did I realize it was this, it is this: My skin may be the color of paper, but I don't feel white. I feel white and something other. Something I can't quite identify. A whole identity that I can wrap my arms around. A whole heritage and culture unrealized, uncelebrated. My friend wrote a book about transgenedered teens who felt trapped in their own sex. They may be born a male but they sure as hell didn't identify as one.

Uncertainty of self is a cancer - it gnaws at your self-esteem, eats away at everything until all that is left is a negative of yourself. An x-ray of a person you think you know, but not really, and your life is reduced to a series of print-by-print movements. For years, I loathed these fair-haired, peach-lipped girls mocking color with their faux tans and bronzers. Kinking their hair with crimpers and irons, crying out to me: If only I had hair like yours!. Right. But I realized that I didn't envy them their hair, I sought their company because they had clear lineage when I had none. They could chart back their families hundreds of years if you asked them to. Their family tree was verdant and pregnant with information when mine was barren. The lone limb belonging to my mother, a woman who severed all ties with our family, who said I didn't need anyone but her. She was a woman who frequently claimed that she was my author.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have been okay with all of this uncertainty (or okay by degrees) had I remained in Brooklyn. Had I not been thrust into a school whose only exposure to color was MTV. Girls who rode the Long Island Rail Road into the city to visit a strip of stores in Soho (Unique, Antique Boutique) and then scurried back to the safety of the Five Towns and Grant Park. Teenagers can be terribly cruel especially if they're racist and your race is questionable.

And other times I'm angry. I'm angry that I wasn't strong enough to make my mother tell me the truth, the real truth.

Follow Felicia C. Sullivan on Twitter: www.twitter.com/felsull

Comments

[eaglecapri]

How unfortunate your mother robbed you of your other half! Regardless of her reasoning, you still had/have the right to know. Have the courage to research and find the other blood that runs in your veins! Then, you will have a choice to restore a relationship with him and his family, or shall I say, with him and your family!

It's apparent that your mom's decision still affects you. You will not be able to rest or be complete until this chapter has been closed (or open - depending on how you look at it). Every story deserves an ending. Go and get your ending!

[realitytrumpsbull]

Sinead O'Connor, when her music producer was
humping her leg, took the then-drastic step
of shaving her 'nog and looking like the
Star Trek lady(Must join with V'ger). Now,
even Britney can do it. I'd say this: Don't
worry about how you look. If you can see
yourself in the mirror without making hex signs
and recoiling in horror and running through
the house to get away from the Bad Thing, then
the folks at the supermarket will likely react
to your visage in similar fashion. Only way
to know for sure though is to actually go
to the mall or something, and test the crowd's
reaction. If they're fleeing and pointing,
and the store people are hastily dialing, then
maybe you want to back off on the hair dye
there, a little.
Sometimes, people really look their best when
au naturel(and clothed), without the lead-based
lipstick or whatever. Of course, you COULD always go the Twisted Sister route, but that
should probably be reserved for the lady
that made it famous, Tammy Faye. Death becomes
her.(Good movie, by the way, Goldie Hawn I think it was)
Anyway, don't stress about appearances. If
pancake makeup and 400-dollar haircuts are
what it takes to make you presentable, you
have other more pressing problems..­.

[derik]

gosh you write so doggone good. If only I could write. Obviously, my life has probably been some lesser in shock value but probably interesting. But, all in all, we are basically 99.x+% the same, at least DNAwise. It is that "smidgen" that makes us create magical gods and race. You should research that end (the 1%). Anyhow, keep on writing ... after all there are some of us that lack your writing talent and do need the "faith". As for me, I have 20+s year more than you in life and humbly await your writing. Thank you!

[sparkandy]

one more thing. i grew up in oklahoma, where there is a large minority of indians. my best friend was half creek, half ponca. i was in college before i realized indians and whites were separate races. it's all about NOT learning the difference.

[sparkandy]

my mother had pale skin, blue eyes, and wild, thick BLACK hair. my daddy had dark brown hair and blue eyes. of their five kids two had mother's coloring and 2 had daddy's - dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes. then there was me - the blue eyed blonde. i stuck out like a sore thumb. there had never been a blonde in the family before. my mother was adopted, so her family just thought it was some aberrant gene. my daddy's family like to never got over it. the only thing that saved me from being the freak was my sister with one blue eye and one BROWN eye! anyway, my mother was beautiful and i always wished i had the wild black hair and blue eyes.

[nihilon x]

Race is little more than a social concept created to keep us divided -- it has been used to justify discrimination, slavery, eugenics, and even outright genocide.

Those who would ridicule you for your appearance are in actuality simply projecting their own insecurities. This is difficult to understand when one is young, but when one gets older it often puts things into perspective.

But like they say, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

[dissolvethecorporation]

My mother used to tell me stories about taking the train from Jamaica Bay into the garment district to hang out; I guess it was safe then. My Aunt in Valley Stream would get upset if I used the family's real name (Ostrofsky) instead of the anglicized version, but I would never be upset if I discovered I had Polish or Jewish ancestry. My conclusion? I don't spend enough time being a good father, husband or brother to my existing relatives to worry about those I never met.