Reconstruction

In this 21st century life, one thing I notice a lot is people and their desire to fit in. Everyone goes through it. Hell, I went through it big time. I went through a bit of a reconstruction phase in middle school. It started with words. White girl. Oreo. Sell-out. These were the words that rolled off of the tongues of my classmates for most of 7^th grade and right into my head. Once they got there, they took up a permanent residency. No matter what I did, they just wouldn’t go away. At first I didn’t mind. Their words even confused me. Why would someone be calling me white when I clearly had dark skin? I certainly hadn’t sold anyone out. I never told anyone that David Krantz skipped school with Jeff Myers to smoke a cigarette behind the water tower. No one heard a word from me when they questioned the entire class about who set off the cherry bombs in the girls’ bathroom in the 6^th grade hall, even though we all knew it was Mike Owens. I was definitely not a sell-out. Oreo….hmmm? That one started to make sense. Chocolate on the outside, but white on the inside. Was that me? Is that really what everyone thought I was? 

My entire life, up until this point, I was perfectly convinced that I was just Tamika. I’ve lived at the same address since I was five, my parents are from South America, but everyone thinks they’re Jamaican because of the accents, and my little brother is blind. I had a tight group of friends and did well in my classes, made honor roll and played the flute. These were the basic building blocks of my foundation. But this new information, it was jarring! I was apparently more than what I thought. I was…white? I stood in the mirror at home, assessing myself; when I couldn’t find the answer, I turned to the all-knowing power in my life – Mom.

“Tamika,” she said. “Those kids are just saying it because you’re different. You don’t fit a mold, that’s why. They’re not used to someone like you. It’ll pass.”

Someone like me meaning what? I wore t-shirts and jeans, like everyone else. I went to school on the bus, like everyone else. I had a family, like everyone else. I listened to…oh. There was clue number one. While most of the other black kids listened to Tupac and Jay-z, I was content listening to Good Charlotte and The All-American Rejects. So, my music makes me white? Was that really it? Johnny Skelecksky answered that for me. 

“Are you racist or something?”

I still remember that day as clear as a bell. My math work had been halted for it.

“What?”

“I mean, you only have pictures of white guys (my Good Charlotte poster was taped on one side of my binder, a Breaking Benjamin poster on the other) and you don’t listening to any rap. You must not like black people.”

I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been good enough for Johnny because he left me alone after that. But my mind didn’t leave me alone, not for a second. For the first time, I realized that I wasn’t being defined by where I came from or who my family was anymore. Now, it was all about who I hung out with, what music I listened to. And apparently I was doing it wrong. The only solution was to start doing it right, right? Commence operation correct me.

I started to listen to a little r&b at first, starting off slow. Some Brandy, Mariah Carey. I liked it; their smooth voices gave me some comfort. I ditched my Chuck Taylors and got a pair of Adidas, which all the girls were wearing. These changes weren’t so bad, minor details in the grand scheme of my new persona. My parents didn’t even notice, minus the 50 bucks my dad shelled out on my new shoes. I asked my mom to braid my hair instead of straightening it. All these changes were cosmetic, but they seemed to work. Suddenly, I was starting to get more attention from people, the same people who had been teasing me. This time, there was no name calling. They asked me to sit with them at lunch. I said yes, but I should have said no. 

I became consumed by the new me. I quit band, telling my teacher I wanted to concentrate on my grades, even though it was a lie. My old group of friends got pushed aside for the new ones. They asked me to move to the back of the class and I did. Instead of paying attention, I listened to them talk about how their brother had just gotten them new shoes, or that they thought the teacher was stupid and didn’t know anything. I laughed with them, even though I didn’t find them funny. I was late to class because I hung out with them in the halls until the last possible second. I even had to walk home a few times because they wanted to skip taking the bus and hang out by the gas station across the street, trying to get someone to buy them cigarettes and candy. Even though I didn’t want to be there, they thought I did. My reconstruction seemed to be working. I hadn’t been called by my nicknames for a while. Instead, I was called to the principal’s office. Twice. 

The first time it was because Storm Winters threw a paper ball at my friend Malissa and then blamed me. It wasn’t my fault, but I got in trouble for it anyway. Why? It was because my new group of friends went along with it. My other friends would have stuck up for me…oh, right, I didn’t have them anymore. They were a part of the old me. The one who didn’t get sent to the principal twice in three days; he so kindly pointed this out to my parents and myself the second time I found myself there. I was called in for being late to class four times. My mother didn’t understand. She swore that I was a good kid and I didn’t act this way. It just wasn’t me.  I just sat there quietly, watching a laughing group of kids walk by the window. I realized that it was my friends, my new friends, and that they didn’t care that I was in here because of them. They still didn’t care, whether I was “like them” or not. After being sent home for the day and being grounded for two weeks, I decided another reconstruction was in order. The new Tamika was just not someone I wanted to be anymore. To put it plainly, she kind of sucked.

My first step in this was to say sorry. I apologized to my parents first, for acting up at school and quitting band without telling them. They forgave, but did not forget. I was still grounded. I accepted my fate as long as I could keep my stereo. I put my new CDs back in their cases and placed the old ones in my disc changer, playing them until it was time for bed. I could already feel myself returning to normal just from humming along to the songs. My Adidas lay in my closet in their box and my braids and been pulled out of my hair. My disguise, the mask I had put on to try and be someone I most certainly was not, was finally gone.

The next day at school was the hard part. My teachers all looked at me with disappointment. Apparently my new behavior had caused a stir in the faculty lounge. They couldn’t believe that I was behaving so differently, and to be honest, I’m surprised I was too. I worked so hard to make myself into someone new, thinking it would make me happy, but I ended up sacrificing all of my happiness to do so. I moved back to the front of the classroom, paying attention and doing my worksheets. When lunch came around, I met my biggest challenge. My friends. The old ones, the ones that I belonged with. 

I walked up to their table at lunch and they all stopped talking. I told them that I was sorry. I apologized to Malissa and told her that it was really Storm that threw the paper. I apologized to Dani, Kim, Amanda, Mandy, Emily, Bryan, Wayne, all of them. My sorrys were met with silence. Dropping my shoulders in defeat, I went to walk away when they did something I didn’t expect. They moved over. Made room for me to sit down. Me and all of my imperfections, my quirks, the things that made me, well, me. They didn’t care what I listened to or what shoes I wore, whether I got good grades or played in the band. They didn’t even hate me after I had ditched them. I may have been young, but I still remember that being one of the most incredible feelings in the world. The feeling of acceptance. It was there all along; I just never took the time to see that. Being preoccupied with stereotypes will do that to a person. I was blinded by all of the negative things that other people saw in me, when they were really the positive things my friends and family saw and loved. I’ll take that feeling and that insight over fitting in any day. Being myself, my true self, is the only thing that anyone should ask for, and the only thing that I’ll ever give to them.