I don’t recall the first time I knew race was a thing. Sure, I walked in the numerous mosaics of people, picked out the perfect Barbie doll that looked exactly like me and even drew pictures, with different colored crayons, depicting our diverse skin colors. I knew there was a difference.

But if I had to pick a specific time in my life, I would say that third grade was the first time that the world’s assorted shades of skin colors had an actual meaning in my young mind. However, it wasn’t until I was in the sixth grade that I truly understood what those array of shades meant.

I’m here to tell you my personal experience of living in a world were blacks and whites specifically have a divide. A world that I am stuck in the middle of.

Just to clarify, yes, I am black. That’s right, Black, African American, non-white. Whatever you want to call me just know I’m black. You can ask my biological parents, look at my skin color, do whatever you need to do to stick this fact in your brain. This is not debatable, point blank.

Throughout my life, numerous people have told me, “Don’t worry. You’re one of us.” They’d laugh and pat me on my back as if this was a congratulatory moment, something to celebrate. They would say, “It’s a compliment,” and expect me to smile, nod my head and agree. I have for most of my life. I’ve smiled back, nodded my head and agreed with all of these statements, happy to be included in something. Except I’m not included in this group. This group is assembled by people who are not like me. They are white. I am not.

I don’t blame whites for assuming that I am like them. In today’s society, if you are black and act the way I do, then you’re are considered to be “acting white.” However throughout my 17 years on this earth, I cannot see how this is possible. 

What exactly is “acting white?” If you try to justify this phase by saying “You speak proper” or “You don’t act ghetto” then you’d be implying that every black person is uncultured. Not only is this offensive but it’s stereotypical. Not every black person is poor just like not every white person lives in a mansion. Not every black person can cook just like not every white person hunts. There are a variety of people with a variety of lifestyles in every race.

Don’t get me wrong, white people aren’t the only ones who classify me with a race that is not my own. Black people have criticized the way I dress, the way I talk, my taste in music and just about everything that makes me who I am. 

Because I do not listen to rap music, have a preference for watermelon or Kool-aid, I am not considered black. Because I wear Kendra Scott necklaces, take AP classes, and take dance lessons, I am considered white. I understand that these are abnormalities and that the majority of people I spend my time with are white: however this does not make me one of them. This is who I am, but I am not accepted; I am different. 

The truth is that I’m not accepted in either racial group. White people expect me to see the world through their eyes; however, my personal experiences do not allow this. Black people see me as a traitor or high and mighty, as if I am too good for my own race. 

I live my life split between who I am and how everyone else sees me. I can’t escape it. In this society, I am a white person, trapped inside a black person’s body.  An “oreo” who wants the world to look past its outside appearance and just enjoy what’s inside. I know that I am not the only one who feels this way, but this story never gets told, only mentioned. I just hope that one day, the racial divisions will blur and we could all just be ourselves, without the stereotypes.