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<\/a><\/p>\n\u201cOh my gosh, Osheta!\u00a0 I\u2019m so glad I ran in to you.\u00a0 This is so God!\u201d exclaimed my friend.\u00a0 With an infectious passion for the oppressed that I\u2019ve grown to love,\u00a0 she told me about a seven-year-old black girl in Tulsa who was expelled from school for having dreadlocks.\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s\u2026horrible!\u00a0 Don\u2019t you think?\u201d she asked. I nodded not quite sure why it\u2019s \u2018SO GOD\u2019 she ran into me and how I, a black woman who regularly relaxes her hair can help but\u2026like a good progressive, social justice Christian, I nodded and echoed her horror.\u00a0 \u201cToday in class,\u201d she continued, \u201cI had this idea to encourage her with pictures and messages from professional, African-American women wearing dreads and I need your help because obviously\u2026. I can only do so much \u201d she pointed to her fine, chestnut hair. Then the other shoe dropped\u2014she expected me to help because I am a black woman.\u00a0\u00a0 Stunned, at the reminder that yes, I am a black woman and yes, I should care about these things,\u00a0 I ramped up my nodding and even laughed at her little joke. We tossed around some ideas and I told her to FB message me the news story\u2014I\u2019ll see what I could do.\u00a0 We hugged,\u00a0 gave each other knowing smiles, smiles that said, \u2018you go, Social Justice Girl, let\u2019s take down the man\u201d<\/em> and I rushed away feeling like a fraud.<\/p>\nThat night as we brainstormed about this idea online I suggested my husband, who is a marketing genius, could help us with getting this campaign off the ground. But as I approached him, simultaneously angry about the ignorance that perpetuates anything Afro-centric to be \u201cunprofessional\u201d or \u201cfaddish\u201d and hell-bent to restore a girl\u2019s self-esteem,\u00a0 an insecurity I\u2019m well acquainted with nestled up to me, pulled back my coarse black hair and hissed into my brown ear, \u201cYou\u2019re not black enough to make a difference for this girl\u2026as a matter of fact, who do you think you are calling dreadlocks beautiful?\u00a0 Did you forget you relax your hair every six weeks?\u00a0 What right have you to champion this girl who at seven is prouder of her African-American heritage than you\u2026 a thirty-two year old Oreo married to a white man.\u00a0 You must have forgotten you are Osheta White-ney\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<\/p>\n
When I was eleven and brought home an\u00a0 \u201cF\u201d\u00a0 on my progress report, my father sat me down and explained the ugly reality of being black in America. \u201cYou are a black girl, studying in a predominately white school. Everyone expects you to fail.\u00a0 Everyone. Even the teachers that are nice to you\u2014 if they\u2019re white, they expect you to fail. You shouldn\u2019t expect them to help you succeed. Because of the color of your skin, they see a lost cause.\u201d\u00a0 He went on to paint terrifying pictures of unwed and pregnant, strung out and desperate, ashy and angry black women.<\/p>\n
Way before the Hunger Games, my father explained to me how the odds are never in my favor.\u00a0 Like Katniss and her angry, determined arrow, I had to get their attention. Black women fade into the background, so I needed to stand out!\u00a0 Play their game better!\u00a0 And he should know.\u00a0 My black father, has two Master\u2019s degrees, a successful military career, and possesses a command of the English language that thrills me everytime we speak.\u00a0 That afternoon, holding my sub-par progress report, he gave me the secret of his success:\u00a0 A black woman in America has to become better at being white than most white women.<\/strong> \u201cYou\u2019ve got to be extraordinary, Osheta.\u201d he concluded, \u201d No more F\u2019s, no more playing around, and no more Zina.\u201d<\/p>\nZina was a black girl in our neighborhood.\u00a0 I don\u2019t remember how we met but the summer before my fifth grade year we were inseparable.\u00a0 When we swam at the city pool, we\u2019d let our hair get wet because my momma would\u00a0 fashion cute little puffs atop our heads. We both started filling out with the soft curves for which most black women are adored.\u00a0 Our skin darkened in harmony that summer; we\u2019d hold up our arms and giggle at the sameness. We were becoming Nubian princesses.<\/p>\n
I never felt more beautiful or known or normal than that Summer of Zina.<\/strong><\/p>\nZina was beautiful, yes, but she had parts of her that didn\u2019t quite fit in my father\u2019s expectation of a well-bred, young lady.\u00a0 She had horrible diction that grated his polished speech,\u00a0 an edgy nature about her that gave away her free ranged upbringing and she said, \u201cyeah\u201d instead of \u201cyes\u201d.\u00a0\u00a0 Soon, my yeses slopped into yeahs. My docile nature formed an edge. Then Zina asked outright, \u201cwhy do y\u2019all say \u2018Sir\u2019 and \u2018Ma\u2019am\u2019 like you white?\u201d and my Marine trained father nearly had a conniption fit.<\/p>\n
I knew Summer of Zina was coming to an end.<\/strong><\/p>\nWhen I brought home that \u201cF\u201d and stopped sitting with Zina and her new group of friends at lunch\u2014she knew our summer had come to an end too.\u00a0\u00a0 On a field trip to the science museum, that Nubian princess become a warrior the likes I\u2019ve never seen or battled since.<\/p>\n
\u201cYo, white girl!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\u201cYou think you\u2019re better than us because you got a daddy at home, right?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\u201cBitch, don\u2019t ignore us with that book\u2026oh you\u2019re so smart because you read all the time\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\u201cYou nothing but an Oreo\u2014black on the outside but white on the inside\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\u201cYour name ain\u2019t Whitney\u2026. Whitney Houston is a real black woman\u2026you\u2019re Osheta White-ney\u2026.No!\u00a0 She\u2019s O-shitty White-ney\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\nWhite-ney\u2026.White-ney\u2026White-ney\u2026.<\/em><\/p>\nZina and her tribe of warriors taunted me the whole forty five minutes to the museum. I tried to lose myself in R.L. Stien\u2019s pseudo-horror story \u2014 but I couldn\u2019t. They were so loud, so insistent, so sure about my identity.<\/p>\n
I understood why white people feared us, because I was terrified of these brazen, loud, angry, black warrior princesses.<\/strong><\/p>\nWhen we finally got to the museum, I tore up the aisle, out of the bus and into the cathedral of intelligence and wonder.\u00a0 Hoping to drown the previous hour\u2019s ignorance with the brilliance of the past, I wandered the halls.\u00a0 I only made things worse though, because now I was a snob.<\/p>\n
Then my own hair betrayed me, telling me, \u2018you\u2019re not even black enough to take better care of me\u2019.<\/strong><\/p>\nI have this nervous habit.\u00a0 I hate it.\u00a0 It\u2019s worse than fidgeting and \u201cummm-ing\u201d all the time. I take down and put up my pony-tails incessantly.\u00a0 If I\u2019m uncomfortable, I\u2019m always messing in my hair.\u00a0 I know Ebony magazine suggests not over manipulating our fragile hair, but I can\u2019t help it. It\u2019s comforting and keeps my anxious fingers busy.<\/p>\n
But this habit has a cost.\u00a0 I break hair ties all the time.\u00a0 The constant tug, pull, wrap, twist, up, and down, of doing and re-doing my ponytails is just too much\u2026and they snap. This is what happened as I walked the halls of dinosaur bones, thinking it must have been much easier to identify your enemy by his blood-stained teeth and jagged claws\u2014your enemy shouldn\u2019t look like you, with matching mocha skin you marveled at just weeks before.<\/p>\n
As I thought and prayed to God what to do, I played with my pony-tail.\u00a0 Tug, pull, wrap, twist, up, down\u2026tug, pull, wrap, twist, up, down\u2026<\/em>and on and on as I walked the halls with my class.\u00a0 Until finally\u2026snap!\u00a0 In that moment, more than my hair elastic broke because Zina and her friends were not too far away. When they realized my hair was a hot mess and I didn\u2019t have a back up hair tie\u2026they pounced.<\/p>\n\u201cWish you had white girl\u2019s hair now don\u2019t you?\u00a0 At least your outside would match your inside, Oreo!\u201d<\/p>\n
My teacher, my poor Southern, white, well-meaning but out-of-touch teacher muttered something about being kind and suggested I use a pencil to twist my hair into a bun.<\/p>\n
A bun that kept falling all day long. To which Zina and her friends responded by surrounding me at the back of the bus and in concert\u00a0 sneezed on me, showering me with a slimy, chemical smelling substance I later learned was hair gel.<\/p>\n
And that afternoon I thought they were going to kill me.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\nThey chased me down on my walk home from school, yelling \u201cWhite-ney, White-ney, O-shitty White-ney\u201d while Zina, their general stood back and watched.\u00a0 Knees skinned, eyes squinting at my Sister assailants, hands burning from the hot concrete and sweat running down my new polo top, I screamed at Zina, \u201cI thought you were my friend!\u201d<\/p>\n
Stepping into the circle,\u00a0 she crouched down and coldly replied, \u201cI \u2018aint friends with no white girl.\u201d she then turned around said something about getting out of there and they all sauntered away, sure and confident in their blackness.\u00a0 Those Nubian princesses left one of their own crumpled on the sidewalk. It would be ten years before I would think of myself as a black girl. As one of them.\u00a0 As beautiful in this brown skin.<\/p>\n
When I was sure they were gone, I ran away.\u00a0 I ran home and sat on my porch and waited for my dad to pull up from work.\u00a0 I was going\u00a0 to tell him he was right.\u00a0 Black is bad and I needed to be whiter than the whitest girl I knew.\u00a0 I needed to get the hell away from Texas City with their bigoted whites and uncouth blacks.\u00a0 I needed the power of a degree, silky fine hair, and a well-spoken manner.\u00a0 I was going to become Osheta Whitney, Attorney at Law, and then come back to rub my success in their unwed, pregnant, strung-out, desperate, ashy, and angry black faces.<\/p>\n
***************************<\/p>\n
God got a hold of me years later through a white man who loves black people. He explained the wisdom in Lauyrn Hill\u2019s lyrics and called me beautiful when I wrapped my hair in a scarf.\u00a0 He fused SAT vocabulary and street slang seamlessly.\u00a0 He gave me compassion for those \u201cuncouth blacks\u201d because desperate people do desperate things when they want to be loved. He showed me my black is beautiful.\u00a0 This short, Irish-Jewish man understood the black experience and he passed his knowledge onto me.<\/p>\n
So most days, I\u2019m ok with being my particular shade of gray.\u00a0 I\u2019m not Osheta White-ney, but I\u2019m not brave enough to wear dreadlocks or read an Alice Walker novel.\u00a0 I\u2019m a black woman in the process of figuring out how to love my heritage when I\u2019ve been so hurt by my Sisters and I think there\u2019s grace for that.<\/p>\n
I have my days though, like the night I went to approach my husband to help with the dreadlocks campaign. Those days, I\u2019m reminded of that girl curled up on the side walk, skin sticky from sweat and dried hair gel.\u00a0 I\u2019m reminded of that year and how being a black woman in a white world, yet rejected by your black community was the worst form of isolation.\u00a0 Worse than solitary confinement, because life and connection and love sings around you, yet your ears cannot comprehend their melody.<\/p>\n
On the days I don\u2019t feel black enough, when that slippery accuser comes to remind me that I\u2019ve forgotten I\u2019m Osheta White-ney I stop and I think of Jesus.\u00a0<\/strong> A man who was not what anyone expected. To the Jews, his own people,\u00a0 he wasn\u2019t Jewish enough because he rejected the law for love.\u00a0 And I wonder when he watched Zina reject me as her own, did he remember the cross and how he was rejected by his very own people. And I wonder\u2026.did he cry for me?\u00a0 I think he did. The Lord is gracious and compassionate.<\/p>\nOn the days I don\u2019t feel black enough, I remember a song we used to sing in church that Jesus is more than enough.<\/strong>\u00a0 That his love satisfies the feeble places in my heart that lack confidence in my racial identity.\u00a0 That I\u2019m a Kingdom Woman and that trumps American, white, or even black.<\/p>\nOn those days I don\u2019t feel black enough, I remember my King gets it!<\/strong>\u00a0 He gets rejection, confusion, identifying with the Jew and Gentile, loving aspects of it all and wanting to bring peace to both sides. He gets reconciliation and his confidence as the Beloved Son satisfied his need in the obscurity of identity.<\/p>\nOn the days I don\u2019t feel black enough I stop and buy Oreos.<\/strong>\u00a0 I remember every hateful word spoken because I love both Lady Antebellum and Lauryn Hill.\u00a0 I remember the skinned knees and broken heart of a girl who lost her brown skinned buddy.\u00a0 I remember the stand-offish black hair dressers when they realize I\u2019m incapable of mimicking their street-wise mannerisms.\u00a0 I remember Osheta White-ney, the Oreo thrown onto the concrete, cracked and unwanted.<\/p>\nBut instead of hating my past, I conquer it by taking and eating the symbol of my rejection.<\/p>\n
And I gnash those offenses between my teeth.<\/p>\n
And I savor the sweetness of the cookie remembering that God makes beautiful things out of dirt.<\/p>\n
Then I swallow and take into myself the truth that we\u2019re all tough exteriors hiding gooey vulnerabilities on the inside.<\/p>\n
I take another and do it again.\u00a0 And again.\u00a0 And again.\u00a0 With the same reverence as when I take the bread and drink the wine, I do this in the presence of my Jesus.<\/p>\n
This becomes my Eucharist.\u00a0 Jesus\u2019\u00a0 brokenness becoming my wholeness.<\/p>\n
And finally\u2026finally\u2026. finally\u2026. I am enough.<\/p>\n
So if you\u2019re like me\u2014you feel stuck in between, not enough of this or that, and too much \u201cother\u201d\u2014you\u2019re not!\u00a0 You\u2019re not too much, not for a Jesus who was despised, rejected, familiar with pain, and misunderstood.<\/p>\n
I know that now and I invite you to come share in my Eucharist. I\u2019ll schooch over and make room for you on my blanket. I\u2019ll listen to your story and then if you\u2019ll pour the milk,\u00a0 I\u2019ll arrange the cookies.\u00a0 Then we\u2019ll decimate those lies by taking and eating and proclaiming one to another\u00a0 \u201cYou are enough,\u00a0 because he is enough\u201d.<\/p>\n
Thanks be to God.<\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
TRIGGER WARNING: Bullying and language \u201cOh my gosh, Osheta!\u00a0 I\u2019m so glad I ran in to you.\u00a0 This is so God!\u201d exclaimed my friend.\u00a0 With an infectious passion for the oppressed that I\u2019ve grown to love,\u00a0 she told me about a seven-year-old black girl in Tulsa who was expelled from school for having dreadlocks.\u00a0 \u201cThat\u2019s\u2026horrible!\u00a0 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3037,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[129,130,131,132,133,93,134,54,21,32,135,136,137,138,139],"class_list":["post-1275","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-blog","tag-betray","tag-black","tag-bread","tag-bullying","tag-eucharist","tag-faith","tag-friens","tag-identity","tag-jesus","tag-love","tag-oreos","tag-race","tag-trust","tag-white","tag-wine"],"yoast_head":"\n
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