My First Lesson In Being Black
When I was a little girl, I loved Peppermint Patty. She didn't wear dresses and she played sports. She talked trash and she would threaten to give you a knuckle sandwich in a minute. She was a night owl and she regularly used the wonderful phrase, "wishy-washy." All those things really appealed to a highly competitive, athletic, and late nite lurking tomboy of seven tender years like me. I was completely clueless that the cartoon character was white. In fact, I was completely clueless at putting a "race" to any member of the Peanuts Gang.
I knew I was black, but I had no concept of what that meant in everyday society. I went to a 99% black elementary school and I lived in a predominantly black middle class neighborhood. All my friends were black. Even though looking back, my two closest friends where both clearly multi-racial and either could have easily passed for white, but they never identified as anything other than black. My girl scout troop was all black, as well as my sport teams. I never remember race being discussed or being an issue. We were just us, regular kids.
For a school art contest, I proudly submitted a drawing of Peppermint Patty on a baseball mound. I played little league, I was the only girl on the team and I wanted to prove that girls could and did play baseball. It was an awesome drawing, if I must say so myself. A darn good likeness of Peppermint Patty especially in my mind with the light brown skin tone I added to my drawing. I had always thought her skin tone was strange, so I "fixed' it with a thin, tan watercolor mix that I had watched my mom use repeatedly on birthday cards for my friends. As far as I knew, all birthday cards needed to be "fixed" when you bought them home from the store.
When I submitted my drawing for the contest, the woman in charge (who was not black) exclaims quite loudly; "this is a great drawing, but you ruined it by making her black, this character is white." Needless to say I was quite crushed by her statement, because all my young ears heard was "ruined" and I knew what that word meant. I was completely confused about how making Peppermint Patty the same color as me was wrong.
Fortunately for me and unfortunately for the lady, my mother worked at my school. I ran to her in tears and told her exactly what the woman said. My mother dried my tears, got me some OJ, and told me to wait for her outside the school library. She disappeared around the corner back in the direction of the school auditorium with my drawing. She returned without my drawing and the grim expression I only saw when my father had pissed her off. After checking out one of my favorite books, Harriet the Spy, my mom and I went home.
That night, my mom and I had a very long and I realize now a very gentle conversation about race. It was a difficult and painful discussion for me to understand, but I knew one thing for sure at the end of our talk, my drawing was not ruined because I made Peppermint Patty black. My drawing was beautiful because it was my vision. My mom made clear that my drawing was fully entered in the art contest and to be proud of my work. When it came time for the final exhibit, my entire family attended to see my drawing. Hand and hand with my mom and my grandfather, Paw-Paw, we all proudly observed the second place ribbon beside my "black" Peppermint Patty!
I don't remember who or what was awarded first prize. I do remember for a long time that I didn't shared my drawings with anyone I did not trust. It would also be a long time before I enjoyed reading about the adventures of Peppermint Patty again. Most importantly, I also never went back to feeling "regular" about myself ever again, I was suddenly thrust into being regularly conscious, yet comfortable with my blackness all the time. My world had changed forever and it had not been my choice, someone else had made it for me.
As an adult, I always worry when I see small black children because I know the moment is coming of when they will be "reminded" that they are black in a negative way and I always hope that they have someone like my mom to bring them back to positiveness and beauty of their blackness.
How about you? When did you discover the full impact of what "being black" actually meant in this society?
