A White Reflection

"Cracker." "Cracker-lacquer." "White Breaded Bitch."

The girls I took out to Yosemite this year thought they knew me so well by first glance. What else did they need to know, anyway? I'm Caucasian - that much is evident. They knew I was educated because I used "5 dollar foot long big ass words" like "extremely." They knew I was fond of the wild - an entirely foreign place, an uncomfortable place, a presumably privileged place, compared to their comfortable cell blocks and prostituting allies. Everything I was, they thought was out there for the degrading. They took my identity. They smashed it with a hammer.

"Fucking Bitch. Fucking Fagot. I hate white people. Don't touch me, Bitch. Where's my dinner?"

In a round-table of questions on day 3, a girl asked the adults, "What's the stupidest thing you've ever done?"

Come here? Try on you? I was up first, and I knew what I was up against. These kids... these troubled, rebellious, and compassionless youth wanted to see if I could measure up to their crime and wrong doing. They were testing us all so they could feel better about their badness. As I opened my mouth to express where I come from and how I've personally dealt with problems and choices, I could taste the girls' disappointment, though it was still an expectation, that I have not had an abortion... that I never did so many drugs I had to be taken to the hospital... that I never crashed my parents car or held up a liquor store or was part of a drive by...

"I grew up in a moderately privileged, middle class home. Should I feel bad about that? I wasn't apart of a crowd that ever acted out in negative ways. Do they know what I'm saying? Is it too obvious that I'm labeling your actions as negative? I got straight As. The stupidest thing I did was get smart. I played sports. I don't mean I did tricks. I sang in the choir. Could I sound any more virginal? And my parents had extremely high expectations of me. Do you feel bad for me yet? I felt like there was always a lot of pressure to be a certain way, so instead of acting out and doing stupid things..."

The agency leader cut me off. "Even white, privileged kids do stupid things, though."

"Yes I know. I'm explaining me. Thanks. Should I finish?"

"Oh.... ok... shhh everyone, let her finish."

"So instead of doing drugs or staying out all night, I internalized the pain of my world. I didn't do many dumb things, but dumb things ate at me in a really deep and serious way..."

They all looked bored.

"...that I'm not at all comfortable talking about."

"That's fine," the agency leader jumped in. "My turn? I grew up in Compton..."

We might as well have been playing chess with the game of white versus black we were engaged in. I started with my pawn, while she busted out her queen. Did I even have a chance at winning anyone over?

"Fucking white people. I can't wait to get away from you people. I'm never doing shit like this again."

At the end of the trip I asked one of the girls what their favorite moment of the week was. She said it was best when she called me a cracker on the first day. I was so proud she got something out of the backpacking experience!

I was happy to get back into Oakland and out of the woods, which I certainly never thought I'd say or think or type. I was elated to separate from the violence that overtook me in the back-country. I began to drool over the idea of independently kicking it on cement blocks for the next few days, knowing there was no way I'd be as attacked in the city as I was in the wild with those girls. I survived! I put down my pack; I thought a poignant, "Well fuck you, too."

But their attacks left scars and bruises and endless echoes.

"Bitch. Fagot. Did you do my laundry? Where it at, Nigga? Fucking cracker. "

I wanted to lose myself any way I could. If I could get lost enough, maybe I'd be renewed. And suddenly, in my detaching, I felt the itch to rebel. I wanted to get pierced. Get tattooed. Dye my hair blue. Cut it all off. Get drunk. Get stoned. Screw around. Throw some eggs at cars.

"Hella Cracker-Bitch!"

I told the hair dresser to do anything to my head to make me look less white, and I showed him the scar from where my eyebrow ring used to be. "I'm not as sweet as I look, truth be told," I announced. But the gay little hair dresser man didn't seem to believe me.

Why was I trying so hard to deny who I was? I AM sweet. I DO have blonde hair and blue eyes. I DO have white skin. Why did I feel bad about it? Is it really anything to feel guilty or ashamed about?

The stupidest thing I ever did as a teen was the same stupid thing I was doing a decade post. These girls popped pills... but I popped pain and digested it until my head spun and I passed out. Reverting is no game.

A few days out of the woods, I'm realizing again that I didn't need to prove myself to them then, and I don't need to prove myself to anyone now. I've been some places. I've seen some crap. I've done some shit. And I'm white! There is no paradox here. I'm is what I'm is, and that's good enough. Those girls and their adult leader are free to judge.... I can deal with that, because in the end of the day I know I'm not wearing a mask to conceal my identity or emotions.

Take it or leave it, I've got strength, guts, and pride. I'm Wonder Bread Woman, and I fly to the tune of honky-tonk, Bitch. Would you like milk with that?