Oreo
I got the subheading wrong while sending this via email. Sorry, guys!
While he was inquiring about extra towels in the hotel lobby, I was upstairs in the room on a mission. I was busy putting on lashes, spraying my hair with Got2B Freeze, and trying to muster confidence. Then, I recorded myself twerking. I don't think I did half bad.
Days later, I spliced up the clip until it was perfect. Before sending it to him, I second-guessed for a moment. Would this be another embarrassing thing I stupidly texted, destined to live in his phone forever?
But I was too proud of it. I couldnāt hold back.Ā
*Tap tap*Ā Delivered. A white check mark appeared next to the video.
I opened a book and reread the same few words as I watched the phone from the corner of my eye.
Then I saw his reply.
āOH NO. WHO ARE YOU BECOMING?ā
I sat there, kind of stunned, kind of pleased.
Good question.
Stunned because of the audacityā¦any guy would get a video of a girl shaking their ass and be like, ādAmN.ā
Pleased because it meant he noticed that I was changing, that I was different.
Plus, was the girl who has never been able to dance, learning how to throw it back, really that threatening?
He didnāt get it. He didnāt see how dire it was for me.Ā
Like I said, I have never known how to dance or move my body in any way that wasnāt room-to-room, forgetting why I went in there in the first place. When I think about it, I never had any bodily awareness until recently. Iāve merely tolerated my body. Iāve never had the coordination nor the rhythm to make my ass clap.Ā
And one day, I just got tired of it.Ā I got tired of playing it safe, of being the good girl.Ā
Being a black nerd is not something I'd recommend. Throughout my tweens and teens, boys rejected me, and the gworls always thought they were hotter than me. While they learned to gel their edges and talk fast, I was nose-deep in a Harry Potter book and LITERALLY reading the dictionary for fun. My parents taught me to be studious, reserved and respectful. And to make matters worse, I came from a spanking generation, where my ass was whooped with all kinds of household items, so I didnāt dare do half the shit other kids did.
In middle school, people started calling me an Oreo: black on the outside, white on the inside. They used a cute word to tell me I donāt fit their approved stereotype of Blackness. Having been ripped from my ghetto motherland of Oakland, California, at a ripe young age, I never developed into the head-twitching, finger-wagging, pop-locking trope of modern African American culture.Ā
Now, youād think itād be a good thing to defy stereotypes and pick up a goddamn book ā but I learned that not having any edge makes life difficult. I was always on the sidelines (sometimes even watching out the windows), admiring the neighborhood girls my mom called āfast.ā Girls with blue eyeshadow and short skirts who listened to music loudly without headphones and crunched on hot Cheetos. Lila, Aries, Mercedes. All the hot, slutty girls with hoop earrings who smoked weed in the 8th grade. I wanted to be them and to be liked by them so badly.
As we got older and got cars, occasionally, baddie types would take me out for a spin, test drive me, and I'd fail. Theyād pull up and Iād get in their hot-boxed Altima, and realize I didnāt know any of the music they were playing, didnāt know what to do with my hands and couldnāt handle weed because it amplified my aNxiEtY.Ā š«
In college, the It girls would pity me and volunteer to help me get ready for the club. Looking disgusted at my marmish wardrobe (I went through a phase where I refused to show my stomach or cleavage), theyād say, āYou have nothing, girl. These look like office dresses. You canāt wear this to the bar.ā
This pattern recycled through time: similar situations, but with different bad-bitches with grandiose senses of self. I envied them, their idgaf attitudes, their ease. They were fun, smelled like jasmine, and had white toes for the hoes. They were soft, innocuous-looking little cherubs who would commit a crime for their boyfriend, Ć la ā03 Bonnie and Clyde.
I get that being wild and ratchet is a young way to be; itās a phase. But when youāve been out of it so long, can you blame me for wanting to grow into it? I didnāt get to do what the other girls did, and Iām mad about it. I was an ugly duckling, and I hated that.
Being my particular brand of Oreo has been especially awful because I live in limbo. After all, I am not entirely a lost cause. I have a great body, don't need filler, and have a great sense of style. I like bad boys who talk crazy, I love rap, and I don't mind a little hood-rat shit (especially when drunk, you could often find me combing the streets looking for trouble).
In the last few years, Iāve started to change. My makeup is more polished, my hair more expensive and elaborate, and my edges are absolutely laid. Iām not going to lie: Iām hot AF. Also, Iāve been saying what I want, I have more confidence, and Iām actually a little meaner (lol).
I guess this is me snapping.
And I suppose that learning to twerk was the final boss.
So, after sending that video to less-than-rave reviews, how could I explain the importance of learning to make my ass clap? How could I explain what it symbolizes and what itās doing for my self-image?Ā
āI guessā¦ā he said, āI just don't find the whole bent over, tongue out, flipping off the camera thing to beā¦attractive.ā
I nodded. I knew what he meant, but frankly, I don't care. Iām so tired of caring what men think. As of now, I canāt answer his question of who Iām becoming, but I know one thing ā Iām excited to find out.
ā M