<p>"I hear this often, but I nor my D ever experienced it. To you all respect, but the students who chose to "act white" (in some cases, probably not yours) were not only expressing themselves with standard english or reading books. Many of these students ignored, were ashamed of, kept away from AA's who did not do same, hung under and around the caucasion kids, and in some cases showed their contempt (either outwardly or inwardly)."</p>
<p>If you hear it often, Sent, it's because it was (and apparently still is, in some places) a common phenomenon. In my own personal case, I merely longed to experience things that I had never been exposed to in the segregated school. I found that the differences between the "colored" school and the newly integrated white school were profound, not just because of the presence of white faces, but because of the sheer abundance of everything "school". Lots more books (new ones!), more and better supplies for budding artists such as myself (no more having to share tin cans full of small, broken crayons, no more being limited to only one sheet of manilla drawing paper; paste, glitter and construction paper galore, a school building that was palatial and filled with light, art and music, a shady playground full of wonderful equipment in good repair, etc.) I thought, "so this is what they were trying to keep from us!" Well, the cat was out of the bag now, and I personally intended to take full advantage of this new world.</p>
<p>Thinking back on the whole experience, what I find somewhat perplexing is the way in which the rules subtly seemed to change not long after schools desegregated. At the colored school, there hadn't been any particular penalty for being serious about learning, for speaking correct english, or showing enthusiasm in class (other than the odd, occasional label of "brown noser"). But after integration, something seemed to fundamentally shift. We had been warned to "watch" the white teachers and students for signs of prejudice, told to expect it daily as a matter of fact, and to report back to our parents any incidences of such. And indeed, there were teachers who obviously resented having black children in their classrooms. Many of the white kids, also, were obviously acting upon the warnings and injunctions with which they had been sent to school. They looked upon us with distrust, condescension, and in some cases, out and out fear. However, there were exceptions. My new teacher (and reportedly, a few others also) seemed to enthusiastically embrace ALL her students, and---good golly almighty, me in particular. I soon became the teacher's "pet", a state which, coincidently enough, was something I was use to. I had been one or another's teacher's pet for virtually the whole time I had been at the colored school, having been told that I was exceptionally bright and talented. Mrs. C also, showered me with more of the same. And while there were white children who wouldn't have graced me with a hello if you'd offered them fifty dollars, there were others who warmed to me quite nicely, and seemed as fascinated by me as I was by them. Soon friendships between white and black students were flowering all over the school. One of my first was with a girl who had the reddest hair and greenest eyes I had ever seen, and who carried the strangest lunches I had ever heard of (pimento and creme cheese sandwiches, guacamole dip and carrots---LOL!). She had a collection of "troll dolls" to die for, and she brought extras for me at playtime. We spent many hours under a tree during recess, dressing those freaky little dolls with scraps of cloth. Nobody thought anything of it.</p>
<p>It wasn't until Junior High that there came a sudden and absolute injunction against having white friends, or showing overt interest in academics. This all seemed to ride in on the coat tails of a militant shift in black politics. Dr. King's message of non-violent protest was wearing thin (they had murdered him, after all), and the messages of men like Stokley Carmichael, Malcom X, and H. Rap Brown were resonating with more and more frustrated blacks. The Black Panther Party made its presence known in no uncertain terms, as cities burned in the wake of nightly riots. Black people said, ENOUGH!---were no longer patient and longsuffering, hoping to persuade white folks of our worthiness to sit at the table, but "Black and Proud", mad as hell, and determined to end the oppression NOW! White folks became THE ENEMY, an enemy to be scorned and distained entirely. All things perceived as "white" were rejected, and rules about what it meant to be "black and proud" were tacitly put in place. There had been a race riot in the cafeteria of the Jr. High the year before my class arrived. Into the wake of this volatile mix I came, naively expecting that things would continue as they had at my last school. I had always had lots of friends, mostly black of course, and recently, a few white. But suddenly, the white ones had to go, less you be accused of "cheese eating" (to this day, I still don't get the analogy). I had two white girl friends, which ended up being two too many. My way of speaking, which had never been a problem before, was now "proof" that I was "cheesy". I became a pariah, virtually overnight. My black friends all dropped me like a bad case of acne, less they be grouped in with me. Some of them even joined in with my tormenters (the most painful being, the first cousin with whom I had grown up from infancy, my favorite and most cherished first cousin!). My black peers not only ostricized me, but daily verbally and physically abused me. People called me "cheese eater", shoved me hard against banks of lockers, and disappeared, laughing, into the crowd between class changes. Or I got followed by a group of girls, one of whom would yank my hair so hard it brought tears to my eyes, When I'd whirled around to face them, I'd find them all standing in a knot, smirking, daring me to identify which one had done the deed. </p>
<p>And it wasn't just the girls. Even some of the boys (who use to openly admire me) got with the program, and ostricized me. It felt like catch 22. I couldn't show any interest in friendships with white kids because it was proof positive that I was "cheesy", and I couldn't have any black friends, because that was proof positive that "cheesy was contagious". But, I just wanted friends--ANY friends. I struck up a very brief friendship with a new black girl (Katrina) whose family had just moved to town. I spent a couple of saturdays at her house, and we seemed to get along great-----until Katrina was made fully aware of my status as pariah, and the dangers of being associated with me. That's when she joined my group of tormenters. I don't know if you can imagine how much that hurt, how hopeless that made me feel. </p>
<p>Lunch time was a no win situation. By this time, whites and blacks absolutely did not sit together in the lunch room. I couldn't sit with my only two white friends, lest I prove once again that I wanted to "be white". And I couldn't sit with the black kids because I was persona non grata. I ended up going through the lunch line to buy an ice cream sandwich and, in good weather, would go to the bleachers outside and wait for lunch period to end. On bad weather days, I'd slip into the library and hide between the stacks of periodicals. One day, as lunch period ended, and kids were heading to their next classes, I tried to leave the library inconspicuously, only to overhear one of the black girls say, "see, she always hangin' out in the library with the white folks." </p>
<p>Well, I just couldn't figure out why my world had been turned so hopelessly upside-down. How had it happened that I was the golden child one day, and the dregs of society the next? I fell into my first deep clinical depression. I was taken to see psychiatrists and therapists who prescribed drugs for anxiety and insomnia. I stopped talking and went deep inside myself. I made a feeble attempt at suicide by swallowing half a bottle of asperin, the only plentiful drug in the house at the time. When I returned to school a week later, my darling first cousin had put the word out all over the school, and some of the black kids would say as I passed, "too bad she didn't die".</p>
<p>I'm not related this story so that people will feel sorry for me. It was a long time ago. Now, I look back upon the whole thing with amazement, but no longer do I feel hurt or anger. What saddens me is when I hear STILL from academically gifted black kids that they are accused of "trying to act white" just because they make excellent grades and speak correct english. I had hoped that we, as a people, would have moved well beyond that crippling social constraint by now. Thank God it's not as common as it was during my day, but it still occurs, especially in poor neighborhoods.</p>