Growing up in a predominantly white environment with an exclusively white friend group, I spent most of my youth feeling embarrassed to be black. From kindergarten to eighth grade, I went to a small private school in Winston-Salem, NC where I was one of only four black kids in my class of 70. As a result, every single friend I had throughout elementary, middle and high school was white.

And it was incredibly lonely.

Like most young teens, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with the crowd, so I hid my blackness the best way I could. I wore polos and Sperrys. I listened to country music. I relaxed my hair so it would lay down straight like my white friends’ hair did. Looking back, this assimilation wasn’t conscious or intentional, it was the inevitable byproduct of growing up with a close-knit group of white friends. We’d shared every experience — big and small — since we were about 8 years old. I hardly have any memories of my life from before I knew them. We’d led such similar lives with each of our experiences inextricably tied to the experience of the group that I always thought we’d turned out to be fairly similar people.

But I’m black, and they’re white. As odd as it sounds, this has only recently come to my attention.

I’ve only recently considered this difference as something that truly matters and it’s because I’ve begun to understand the complexities and nuances of race. My understanding of race has evolved from a belief that skin tone was all that distinguished me from my friends to an understanding that the divide comes from a difference in lived experiences. Though my friends and I have shared so many experiences in life, I’ve lived them as a black woman and they’ve lived them as white women. Those experiences, fundamentally, are different.

For example, there were a lot of uncomfortable moments in my childhood when others took it upon themselves to remind me of my blackness, a specific type of microaggression that none of my white friends were forced to endure. People told me I was the whitest black person they had ever known and that I “wasn’t really black.” White people who listened to rap music claimed to be blacker than me. People told me I “talked white.” I was often called an Oreo, and I suffered through a lot of painful, awkward moments.

People would slip up and make racist jokes or offensive comments around me. Sometimes they would even use the n-word in my presence. Whenever this happened, my heart would race and my stomach would lurch in dreadful anticipation of what would happen next. Everyone in the group would turn to me — the only black person in the room — to see my reaction. Wanting the moment to pass, I often said nothing. Other times, I would let out a chuckle to ease the tension, giving the offender their sought-after approval. When the moment passed, I would sometimes overhear someone reassure the bigot. Don’t worry, she’s cool. She doesn’t care.

At the time, I truly wasn’t offended, but only because I was too ashamed and embarrassed to feel anything else. I didn’t want to be different. I didn’t want to be black. So I learned not to be offended by blatant racism. I learned to be cool.

These moments were especially painful because they were excruciatingly lonely. I had no one to share them with. My white friends didn’t feel shame or embarrassment during these moments because they didn’t have to. They weren’t black.

Enduring constant microaggressions, tokenism and white supremacy on my own led to loneliness, and that loneliness bred a desire to avoid my own blackness. I also gravely misunderstood what it meant to be black. Since my immediate surroundings were so white, my limited definition of blackness relied on media stereotypes. I didn’t understand the diversity within black culture or the common experience of oppression that binds our community together.

Broadening my definition of race has been a crucial step in claiming my black identity and pridefully acknowledging my difference in a sea of white faces. Claiming my blackness has made it easier for me to connect, empathize and identify with other people of color. This connection has profound importance for me as a black woman because it allows me to eliminate the loneliness and it makes living in this white supremacist society just a little bit easier.

has your black identity changed over time? tell us how in the comments below.

Jeux et divertissements

Jordan Bailey

Writing since September 2015 · 3 stories contributed