My parents prepared me for a lot. They took education seriously, resulting in me living by a schedule from elementary to high school. They had expectations and requirements of me and my siblings and they supported this with chores, rules and regulations. In addition to this, they had to teach me one of the most important lessons of my life. A lesson that now as an adult I see the importance of. And a lesson that as a parent hurts and upsets me because I will have to teach the same lesson to my own children. The lesson was as simple as this. You will always be "that black girl".
We grew up in a well-to do neighborhood in Northern Virginia and with two educated and working parents there wasn't a ton we wanted for. I could probably count on one hand the amount of black families that I remember living in my neighborhood, and having a small handful in my elementary school it was easy to be labeled "that black girl in class," because realistically there weren't many of us (if you asked I could probably quickly name each one). And while I didn't think much of the statements I received at the time, as a parent and as an adult I now question how I am supposed to respond to my own children when they come home explaining that, "the kid next door called him a stupid nigger" (which happened to my younger brother) or that a kid in your group of friends felt it necessary to tell you that another friends father instructed him not to use the bathroom after blacks and frequently used the "n-word" as he put it (which happened to me), or one of my favorite memories of another kid voicing his parents speculation that your parents obviously must do something illegal considering your mom drives around in a nice car.
Despite these incidents I never really paid attention to my race until middle school. Attending a heavily African American middle school was a literal slap in the face. Now I wasn't just "the black girl," but I was also labeled by my own black peers as the black girl with the "rich parents, who thought she was white" (the name Lindsay didn't help either). It seemed that I was now too black to be friends with many that I had grown up with, but I definitely wasn't black enough to be friends with my new counterparts.
My own vanity pushed me beyond feeling sorry for myself. I knew I was smart and I knew I was driven. I felt that I would get to where I wanted to be in life and I would never look back. I graduated college, took on grad school and was running a multi million dollar company by the time I was 26. I knew that if I could outshine most of those around me then I would definitely be known as more than "that black girl." Instead the jabs became more obvious. The kindness I experienced on the phone (because not only is my name Lindsay, but I also "sound" white on the phone) was quickly erased when I would meet said individual in person. The comments that questioned my education and how exactly I got the job, those who were crass enough to actually saying derogatory statements to me over the phone about black people because they didn't think I was black or actually hearing myself being referred to as "you know, that black girl."
As my daughter grows up I know I will have to educate her to the best of my ability. I will have to explain to her that sometimes that is how people will describe her. That yes, when they describe her white peers she will hear, the pretty lady or the tall lady or the lady with blonde hair and blue eyes and she may be referred to as "the black girl," but that it should never diminish her spirit because she is so much more than that. She is mommy's spirit and joy. She is one of the best things I have ever done. And every day that I look at her big brown eyes and her beautiful skin I thank God that he blessed this little black girl to be more than just that.
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