Straight No Chaser

Nubian Princess

i had this social studies teacher, in middle school, who thought it was a riot to constantly point out that i was his only black student, and a female at that.

"our nubian princess, as the only black student in the class, and a female at that, can we have your take on that, please?" he would ask in this big, jovial voice, right after he'd slammed us with prison statistics for urban centers, as though i was going to provide some magical insight to all this black stuff. as though, for the purposes of enlightening the class, i was going to suspend my intensely suburban upbringing and tell them all about "life on the inside."

then we started reading roots in english, and because it was an interdisciplinary program, the social studies teacher immediately took to calling me kizzy. again, he thought himself positively riotous, every time he found a way to work it into every discussion. "so dizzy kizzy, do you have a thought to add to that?" he would say--he talked fast--and i would laugh hysterically like everybody else and add something, and anything, as per his request, just to keep things moving along.

i probably would have believed cappucine's dad about the soup-eating, because i was very mixed up, and talked myself into believing a lot of really hideous lies. the main one from this particular period was that if i pretended and laughed hard enough, i would transcend my own kizziness, nullify it by just letting it be. by twelve, which i think is how old i was in that class, i had already convinced myself that i didn't have an appearance--that my face was, in fact, blank or possibly transparent. (i still sort of feel that way, actually, maybe because it's the face i see most often, in mirrors and stuff. it's the default face. other people's features i measure by how severely they deviate from my own. kind of egocentric, but not narcissistic, because i still don't think i'm pretty.) it didn't take much of a leap, therefore, to make myself believe i could quit being black whenever i wanted to. a real black person, i guess i figured, wouldn't laugh at his blatantly offensive race jokes, which meant i must have been faking, which meant, i don't know, control, or something.

that was my one big thing, because i had an otherwise privileged and nearly perfect childhood. not that one thing, the kizzy, but that whole thing of trying to fake it. or not even trying, because i did a great job, apparently, as evidenced by the countless times i've heard some variation of "but you're not really black, you don't count," or something equally ignorant that basically just means i'm articulate.

which was finally my example, to convince lauren (a middle school friend), as well as myself, that there was more to it than color and the hair thing, that the soul's experience was involved, to some degree (my twelve-year-old understanding of race). we went to mentor at a predominantly white elementary school, once, and when i made the call to confirm our arrival time, identifying myself by name--but shockingly, not ethnically or otherwise--the contact woman said something really inappropriate about the racial makeup of our middle school and how she hoped they wouldn't be sending "any colorful urban students." clearly thinking i was some white girl, and that i'd just snicker and keep it to myself. i red-flagged it and told lauren, to illustrate my point about how little things like that happen all the time, you can't escape them, and she brushed it off and sort of giggled. "whatever," she probably said.

when we got there the next day, lauren introduced herself first, and the woman greeted her with this tight-lipped smile, staring at me out of the corner of her eye, thinking, i'm sure, didn't i tell them not to send me some thug from downtown?

i said, "hello, i'm shannon. we spoke on the phone?"

her jaw practically fell off of her face. when she put it back on, she was all smiles, pumping my hand so hard i thought she'd pull it off, apparently thrilled that i'd identified myself without splitting verbs. "well hello, shannon, aren't you just so articulate!"

it happens, i guess.

but kizzy shouldn't. i should have told my parents or an administrator or something, or even just stood up for myself and reminded him of the correct pronunciation of my actual name, but you know how middle schoolers and minorities are. if i don't make waves, no one will look at me, and i'll get to keep my secret.

just, stupid. being twelve sucked.