Thin, Black Skin

I work for the College of Communication at the University of Texas at Austin as a web designer and writer. (I didn’t have much to do with the design of our current site. This design is the result of “design by committee”.) Yesterday I received a strange email from the President of the Black Faculty and Staff Association asking if I could please give her a call and answer a website question.

I’m not a member of the BFSA, because I don’t care about being black. I realize this “not caring”is a luxury borne on the backs of those who participated in the civil rights movement and borne of my fair-ish skin color. Nevertheless, I really don’t pay much attention to being black. I don’t consider myself part of the “black community”. It simply isn’t one of my personal identifiers. So I thought it a bit strange this woman would choose to email me out of the blue like that, but considering how much I love what I do I decided it wouldn’t be a burden to return her phone call.

It was a strange conversation. In the middle she stopped and said, “Wait, you are African-American, right?” I winced, and not only because I hate the term “African American”. I winced because I knew what that question meant, especially when it was followed with, “Where are you from?” Those questions mean, “Why do you talk like you’re white?”

I don’t sound like your stereotypical black girl. I sound like any California-bred Caucasian. This has largely been a good thing for me, because as we all know, “sounding white”(unless you “sound Southern”) means “sounding educated”. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true. The only time this was ever a problem was during my formative years when the black kids at my new public school (I had previously been a private school brat for 7 years) told me that I could never be one of them because 1) my hair was too good 2) I dressed white and 3) I talked funny. I was good and shunned by the entire black population at my junior high school, except by one other black girl similarly shunned.

Once bitten, I never really gained any black friends. My attitude after that was, “Fuck ‘em.” Perhaps that’s underserved. And perhaps it’s high time I grew out of it. But thus far I am still apprehensive of black folks as a group. Not really individual blacks. It’s something I consciously work on.

But to return to this story, the woman on the phone wanted me to design a website for the BFSA—for free. Because, of course, I’m black and I should be happy to do free work for an association for blacks that I don’t care about and don’t belong to. Because by nature of my skin color, I’m automatically part of the club.

Except for all the times I haven’t been. Which has been my entire life.

The entire conversation felt surreal to me. After asking where I was from and verifying that I was indeed African-American, she asked whether the university I had attended had been “historically black”. What difference did it make? Did it make me out to be less of a black girl because I hadn’t attended a historically black school? And furthermore, why was so much of our conversation centered around being black? She wanted help with a website. While I realize it’s a website for black folks, was it important that I be “down with the cause” in order to help her with a website? Was it important that we discuss the ins and outs of my blackness? I don’t even know this woman. Why was it even appropriate for her to ask me questions about my background and education when all she wants is professional work done pro bono?

The whole thing made me angry. And on top of being angry, I felt hurt. And that part is difficult to explain. I’ve been an “outsider” all my life. Never white, but never “black enough”. It took until my early twenties to feel comfortable in my skin. But it’s a thin comfort, and easily damaged. And something about that conversation left me unsettled. Once again I found myself between worlds, but this time I felt belittled as well as taken advantage of. Because in a moment of weakness, I agreed to design a quick and dirty template just to get off the phone.

I haven’t decided yet if I will fulfill that agreement or email her to get out of it. I’m a pussy when it comes to confrontation.

Afterwards, my (white) co-workers and I got into a discussion about race and ethnicity that was interesting, but felt somehow shallow. Perhaps because they couldn’t really understand where I was coming from, much as they would like to. They mean well, and I know they want to support me. But this is a road I travel alone. It’s always been this way.