Jasiri

In my Women’s Studies class, we were assigned to read an article titled “White Privilege and Male Privilege.” The article is quite dated now having being written in 1988, but I was 8-years old in “88 and a few of her comments transported me back in time to the days when I was struggling with my identity (when the struggle first began). I remember up until the age of five being totally immersed in black culture–I was rarely around whites, or any other race for that matter. We lived in a black neighborhood and my preschools were all black. It calls to mind my days at Howard University–it was possible to see only black people if you so desired (well almost, as long as you lived on campus, didn’t venture too far from Georgia Ave., and did not run into those few minority students who do attend the University).

Anyway, I digress. At age four we moved clear across town, still in a black neighborhood–but our schools were nearly all white. What a shock to my system! I practically retreated into a shell. Although no one ever explicitly stated, “you are inferior,” I certainly felt that way. In first grade, I was the only black child in my class–no one to identify with. I can remember speaking one way at home, and adopting a more proper tone at school. Not because anyone made me, but I felt completely like an outsider if I didn’t. This created for me what W.E.B. Du Bois called “double consciousness,” and my confidence suffered because of it.

My parents were great in helping to boost my self-esteem–although I never spoke with them about the inner turmoil I was experiencing. Peggy McIntosh, the author of the article, compiled a list of privileges that white people enjoy. Of these, “I can easily buy posters, post-cards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people of my race” I immediatly identified with. Presently, finding these things are not as problematic for people of color, but when I was a child they were damn near impossible. Now we at least have the black section of greeting cards in most stores, and black and brown faces can be seen in magazines and toy store aisles. As children, my siblings and I were constantly bombarded with images of people who did not look like us. My parents attempted to counter this system of cultural imperialism, so when gift-giving time came around we recieved images that looked like us. We had a huge collection of barbie dolls, but not one was white (well there was that one that was fairly light, but my mom said she was of mixed race. Hahaha.). One of my favorite gifts was my Indigo doll. When I was younger, I was in love with everything Rainbow Brite. As a Christmas gift my mother bought me Indigo, the only black friend of Rainbow Brite. After that, it was “Rainbow Brite who?”

*In this post the term Indigo Child is not being used in the manner in which it is typically defined.