personal essay (first terrible draft)

(just a note: this was for a class but i figured i'd post it here... i don't think it's too bad id like to add a bit more critical thinking. im currently working on the second draft)

LIFE AS AN OREO

I am fifty percent black, fifty percent white and one hundred percent confused. In fact, I have been completely dumbfounded since I was old enough to think for myself. I don’t think many normal people really think about how difficult it is to be the product of two different races. What side am I supposed to choose? I’ve always prided myself in being both races, I feel like I get to experience the best and worst of both worlds, but at the same time it’s a black cloud that is constantly hovering over my head, threatening to rain on my parade.

I’ve struggled with racial identity since I was let out into the world on my own, and allowed to make my own decisions. When I was just a sheltered kid, spending every day with my parents and my brother, it never quite registered that we were different than the other families. At the time we lived in a predominantly black area, with the rest of my family within very close proximity. Days were spent with my brother, who barely a year younger than me, and my cousins who are barely a year older than me. I was the only girl around, so we generally played cops and robbers, secret agent spies, and tag more than house and Barbies. No one ever talked about how my mom was white or asked any questions. I never wondered why one of my grandmas was white and told me the best stories while the other had a heavy Jamaican accent and always made the best breakfast on Sunday mornings. It was more fun to talk about which secret location we would hi-jack into with our V-Tech computers, or pick out which Ninja Turtle we most closely identified with. This is where the saying “ignorance is bliss” comes from. It wasn’t until I got a little older when I started to realize that I was different from everyone else. And being a child I obviously only really wanted one thing: to be the same as everyone else. I began to actually become embarrassed to be seen with my mom, and dreaded anytime I’d have to go out in public with her.

My earliest memory of really having an issue with my mixed race was in second grade, when I still lived in the predominantly black area. It was the day where all the parents came into class and got to shadow us for a couple hours to see exactly what the day in a life of a second grader really was. I should have been excited to show my mom about how much I learned in class, how I was the best reader in class and how the teacher thought I could start reading third grader books. Instead I was more worried about what everyone would think when I walked in with a white woman holding my hand. I had falsely hoped that I could keep my mother’s existence a secret from the outside world. If I had it my way she would just hide in the closet and only come out when I wanted someone to read me a bedtime story or play games with me in the bath. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t quite work that way. It was a rainy day when I dragged my mom into my classroom and sat down quietly without saying a word. We were seated in pods of four desks, and my pod happened to be directly in the center for all of the class to see. It’s not quite in the nature of a 7 year old to hold much back, which is why the minute I sat down a girl across the pod from me looked at me, then my mother, then back to me and bluntly asked, “Why is your mom white?”. Flabbergasted and not quite sure how to explain myself, tears came streaming down my cheeks as my entire body convulsed with sobs. I still shudder when I think back on that day.

As I got older, things started to get stickier. Kids got crueler and I grew more confused as the years went by. We moved to a different town with more white people in it, where I was rudely informed by a group of black kids that I was an “Oreo.” Technical definition of an Oreo: a chocolate cookie with white cream filling. Slang definition of an Oreo: a person who is black on the outside but white on the inside. By this point in my life my black father was out of the picture and my white stepfather’s head was pasted in. I don’t know exactly what I did that tipped these kids off that I was an Oreo. Did my parent’s speaking rub off on me? Was it the fact that I listened to the Back Street Boys instead of Jay-Z? The whole idea of acting like a white person still baffles me to this day. I’m not intentionally trying to offend anyone who is black and listens to rap music, and wears Apple bottom Jeans and boots with fur. I didn’t wake up one day and decide that I hated black culture and wanted to submerge myself in all things white in an attempt to push away my other half. I can’t help that I prefer guitar riffs over heavy bass and drums. It was those kids who made me embarrassed to be myself. I was only 9 and I was starting to second guess what music I listened to and what shows I watched.

By the time I entered middle school I started to think that my brother and I were our own special breed of people. We were like those Albino people you always heard about but never saw. We were the Oreos, the exclusive club that was black on the outside but white on the inside. We had again moved to another town over, this time even more white. But there was something different about this town than the others. There were people like me here! Maplewood, New Jersey The overly liberal, gay friendly streets were filled with people who were accepting of other’s differences and strangely encouraged it. was the safe haven I had been longing for my entire life.

The first time I met a girl who was just like me, the heavens opened up and angels sang. Finally! There was someone who identified with the same issues I did. It was freshman year, and her name was Angie. Appearance wise she was a little different than me. My hair is kinky and my skin is without a doubt black, and most people tend to assume that’s what I am. Her skin, on the other hand, is not black and it’s not white. Her hair is not straight, but it isn’t kinky either. It was like God took a white person and a black person and smashed them together to see what the product would look like. We liked the same music and had the same taste in clothes, and she definitely had a membership to the Oreo Club. I finally didn’t have to be embarrassed to like the things I did. To this day Angie and I are still best friends who are eerily similar in every way.

At the age of 18, I don’t find it particularly easier to be a half-breed. I’m still confused as to which race I fit in with more, and whether I’m a bad person for fitting where I do. I look at myself as a puzzle piece; I can’t help which shape I fit into and which I don’t. I make a point to tell most people I meet or befriend that I am in fact bi-racial as if it were an excuse as to why my personality is the way it is. I’m not embarrassed to be bi-racial, I’m proud of who I am and where I come from. So in case you didn’t know, I’m Monique McKenzie and I’m a member of the Oreo Club.

ramblings

rum and weed was the smell that seeped under the doors of grahams room in what he liked to call his own personal hell. that was, in fact what he has written on the sign on the outside of his door. to any untrained nose this particular scent could, and usually did, cause nausea, heartburn, upset stomach, and/or diarrhea. the room was very much lived in; the floors were covered in piles and piles of clothes that were almost as tall as his computer desk. the walls were bright lime green and orange, almost uncharacteristically so, and were covered in writing and paintings he had done over the past 4 years. his favorite was "FUCK THE PIGS, DAMN THE MAN" which was written in red paint in sloppy, drunken handwriting. this was done only 3 nights after he had just painted his room and he had gotten escorted out of a sports bar by a particularly nasty pig whose fat spilled over his pants and had traces of donut icing around his 5 o'clock shadow. besides the enlightening message about the police, he had several murals he conjured up when he was blazed out of his mind (the only way his art work was ever created) and different band posters he had collected on tour. upbeat guitar riffs and a melodic, hypnotic blend of trumpets, trombones and saxophones blared out of the computer speakers that sat on top of his computer monitor. graham was downing another swig of captain morgan as he simultaneously tapped his toes against the hardwood floor. he was listening to big d and the kid's table. although they had grown pretty mainstream over the years, he couldnt bear to toss away the music that had helped define who he even was as a person. looking down at his half empty bottle of rum, graham decided it was just about time to venture out into the real world and find something fun to do. it was 1 am and the night was utterly young, and mischief and mayhem was just begging to be had. he was wearing a pair of dingy, bright green jeans that he has stumbled, literally, upon at a flea market. they were about 3 years old, but they were his absolute favorite pair of jeans. he has worn them out to the point of extreme comfort and the holes were in all the right places. he had a striped black and white shirt on, which he had slept in the night before after finding it on his floor. his stomach was screaming at him in pain and hunger and he jumped out of his computer chair a little too quickly. he put his slightly brown hands out in front of himself to steady himself and grabbed a black sweatshirt covered in patches and pins off of his floor. he stuffed the bottle up his jacket and kept it very close to his heart, where he preferred all of his alcohol or any other illegal substance. dylan had been expecting him for at least and hour, and he was starting to feel a little guilty which motivated him to move his ass. the ride to her apartment wasn't as brutal when he was drunk, so it felt like only a couple minutes and a big blur of lights and faces before he was stumbling his way up to her apartment. he pulled out the cheapest plan verizon offered out of his pocket and dialed number 2, since his was usually to intoxicated to go through any other process of calling someone. he wasn't as drunk as he usually was but his words were starting to stick together when he shouted a little too loudly into his cellphone, "captain morgan and i have some business to discuss with you!"

First Post!?!

This is not my first blog.
This isn't even my tenth blog.
I've had them all, from the now defunct ujournal, blurty, deadjournal, diaryland, livejournal, insane journal etc etc I HAVE THEM ALL.
Except for this. I've never had a blog spot blog. I've never really had anything that was called "a blog". It intrigues me to be honest.

I change journals like I change my underwear but I always keep the same readers, and I never change the content of what I write. I complain, I bitch, I whine and I cry. I've been seeing the same themes of my entries since I was in eight grade. I started this when I was 12 or 13 (still not quite sure what got me started) and I'm 18 now. I just can't stop, I really love to write. I always viewed it as a special talent of mine that no one really knew about. Writing comes to me with great ease. Of course I could always use room for improvement and it could always use work.

I love writing fiction. I hate poems. I am easily bored.

Here, on this blog, is where I will post my writings. Good or bad, happy or sad.. angry or mad?

tune in, maybe.