Written by Tiffany P Jones
February is a great month for me. I was born in February, half-price candy day is in February (you know, the day after Valentine’s Day) and, of course, February is Black History Month.
Growing up, Black History Month was a big deal. Every year, my elementary school would throw a Black History celebration. My mom headed up the festivities, and they were always a big hit. We had everything from incredible African drumming to silly impersonations of important figures in black history. I was Tina Turner once. Don’t bother asking for video or pictures; they will not be found. Ever.
I should probably explain my hometown. I’m from Falls Church, Va., a suburb of Washington, D.C., and one of the most ethnically diverse areas in the country. My best friends in elementary school were Indian, Greek and Korean. I say this to paint a better picture of these black history nights. The entire school would come out, and a good mix of students helped perform. This wasn’t an event only for black families, and if it was, the gathering would be quite small. I’ve spent the majority of my life being the only black kid in my classes.
Which is why I remember being so proud of my heritage on those nights: a celebration during which my black heroes finally got their time in the spotlight where they belonged.
This all greatly diminished when I went to middle school. I changed districts to go to the gifted and talented school and was thrust into a completely new (and mostly Jewish) environment. Any mention of black history was in passing or a quick bit of trivia over the PA in the mornings.
Things got worse in high school. My group of friends’ idea of celebrating Black History Month was to stop using the N-word for a month, a task that they, none of them black mind you, couldn’t even follow through on. My standards had slipped. I’m stilldisgusted at some of the things I let my “friends” say to me back then, and even though I wasn’t the only black girl in our little clique, I was fully cemented into the role of the token black kid.
Now before you feign shock at the fact that I would be friends with people so racially insensitive, think about your friends. At Harding, I’ve heard the N-word thrown around plenty, a word that I will tell you right now, I never use. But forget the N-word; that is far too obvious. Think about the term “black.”
From what I’ve witnessed, the term “black” is becoming the new slur. I often hear it in conjunction with words like poor, uneducated and ignorant. When people are impressed by my vocabulary, they tell me I don’t talk like I’m black. When people like my clothes, they tell me I don’t dress like I’m black. I don’t act like I’m black. I don’t eat like I’m black, unless I’m eating fried chicken. I don’t listen to black music. I am for all intents and purposes a white girl in a black body: an Oreo.
All of my life I have been told that I am an Oreo, black on the outside, white on the inside. Most of my life, I have rolled my eyes and ignored it, but now, I am taking a stand against the term. I hate it. I’m offended by it. I am NOT an Oreo; I am a human being.
Although society seems to want me to speak in Ebonics and be sassy, my grandfather fought for a world in which I am allowed to be myself, not a head-swinging, finger-snapping caricature of myself.
Prince Albert Jones Sr., or “Father” as we all called him, passed away my freshman year. When hedied, I began to hear stories about him I had never heard before. I knew him as the strong pillar of his family and community, but I didn’t know he was a pioneer of civil rights. He was one of the first African Americans to register to vote in Montgomery county, Ala., and also used the respect people had for him to get others registered.
Morris Dees, co-founder of the Southern Poverty Law Center, said my grandfather “was one of the area’s most dedicated advocates for equality and used his good reputation with the white farming elite to help black neighbors and church members obtain the right to vote decades before the enactment of the 1965 Voting Rights Act.”
It is that history I seek to preserve. I am so proud to be who I am. I love the color of my skin, and I have never been ashamed of it. So, when you call me white, which many black people call me as well, I will take offense to it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being white, but there is also absolutely nothing wrong with being black.
