I was born with un-white skin, a foreign name, one Middle Eastern Muslim parent, and one Agnostic Jewish parent. Later, bussed across town to the “black school” in the name of segregation, I experienced rejection on all sides. From white peers, because I was not white or Christian. From Black peers—(what language even fits here? “Blacks” feels blunt, “Negroes” feels distant and pretentious, and “African American” reads like forced political correctness)—I sensed hostility for my whiteness. Threats like, “Ima beat your skinny white ass. You better watch it,” were not uncommon. I was an asshole, though, so maybe it was deserved. Hard to know.
I was prepared to despise Black people if it might have made me seem whiter, more acceptable. But our home pulsed with bitterness and rage. That energy manifested in a constant seething resentment, always seeking a host. Anyone else under fire seemed like a suitable target.
Because I descended from angry people who were not racist, I did not hate Black people. I just hated. Period. And nobody more than myself.
Looking back, I see that my wrathful mouth, attitude, and antics could easily have been fatal had I been Black. My “non-black” skin has protected me in ways I have never fully realized. For the record, I have never felt white—just not black.
