Read Online Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress by Susan Jane Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Jane Gilman
Ads: Link
sight. We struggled to understand why. What had we done wrong?
With no working knowledge of history, and without the usual host of prejudices to fall back on, we were left to develop our own. And the prejudice we developed was this: we white kids were disliked because we were so hideously un-cool.
When it came right down to it, declared my white friend Andrew, we had to face facts: white people came in dead last in the Hip Pageant. We were the lowest branch of the Cool Tree. We were losers in the Lottery of Soul and Ail-Around General Funkiness.
As he said this, our friends Juan, Steven, and Adam looked down sheepishly. “Aw, c’mon,” said Steven halfheartedly. Steven was black. But why should he apologize? We white kids could see it for ourselves. Every morning, when we all walked down the hill to PS 75 together, we stopped to look in the window of the Ottowa Record Store. There were two albums always on display, set at right angles to each other:
The Partridge Family’s Greatest Hits
and
ABC
by the Jackson 5. “Like, doy, who’s better?” said Andrew disgustedly, rolling his eyes.
White dorkiness was glaring and embarrassing. Augh, how we wanted to wriggle away from it! Our black and Hispanic friends seemed all-knowing, almost invincible to us. They were like the superheroes of the neighborhood. They were clearly the best at anything that truly mattered to us kids: Loyalty. Cracking Jokes. Thinking Quickly. Musical Taste. Opening Up a Big Fresh Mouth. Playing Stickball and Basketball. Bravery. Resisting Pompous Authority Figures. Jumping Rope. Beating People Up. Telling It Like It Is. Hairdos.
Compared to them, we white kids were hothouse flowers—pampered, hesitant, gutless children who followed instructions and clung to our mothers. We were callow. We thought nothing of selling each other out for a baseball card or a Zagnut bar (I personally could be persuaded to change seats in the lunch room for a can of 7-Up). By contrast, if I just
looked
at one of the older Puerto Rican girls on the cafeteria line, her
friend
would say to me: “Ay, who you lookin’ at, girl? You lookin’ at my friend Diana, here? You better not be.”
With black and Puerto Rican kids, it wasn’t enough just to have the right dolls or an extra package of Devil Dogs. You had to be initiated into their friendships and prove your allegiance. “If you’re really my friend,” Alissa told me in the corridor at school, “then whatever you have to say, you say it to my face or not at all. You’re either straight with me, or you’re not with me. You got that?”
Of course, the great irony was that the black and Hispanic kids in our neighborhood were among the most vulnerable populations in America. Their toughness wasn’t a luxury or a fashion statement. It was a survival kit, plain and simple. But we little white kids were too young and naive to see that. All we saw when we looked at them was their strength and indifference, coupled with style—the fundamental essence of Cool. Black and Hispanic kids gave the impression of having thrown off all the humiliating albatrosses of childhood that the rest of us suffered with: the obedience, the dependence, the frustrating helplessness. Strangely, if they threatened us, it only fueled our desire to become more like them.
Remember, this was pre-MTV. This was long before white suburban kids started going around in baggy jeans with their underwear hanging out, rapping about being gangstas and givin’ a shout-out to their peeps. But already, we felt the irresistible tug: any white kid with kinky hair coaxed it into a “Jewfro,” then walked around with a pick stuck in it like a trophy. White teenaged girls started wearing T-shirts reading “Black Is Beautiful.” My friend Amy’s older brother hung out only with “the brothers,” dated only black and Hispanic girls, and spoke Spanish on the basketball court. All of us imitated the clothes, the speech, the walk of our black and Puerto
With no working knowledge of history, and without the usual host of prejudices to fall back on, we were left to develop our own. And the prejudice we developed was this: we white kids were disliked because we were so hideously un-cool.
When it came right down to it, declared my white friend Andrew, we had to face facts: white people came in dead last in the Hip Pageant. We were the lowest branch of the Cool Tree. We were losers in the Lottery of Soul and Ail-Around General Funkiness.
As he said this, our friends Juan, Steven, and Adam looked down sheepishly. “Aw, c’mon,” said Steven halfheartedly. Steven was black. But why should he apologize? We white kids could see it for ourselves. Every morning, when we all walked down the hill to PS 75 together, we stopped to look in the window of the Ottowa Record Store. There were two albums always on display, set at right angles to each other:
The Partridge Family’s Greatest Hits
and
ABC
by the Jackson 5. “Like, doy, who’s better?” said Andrew disgustedly, rolling his eyes.
White dorkiness was glaring and embarrassing. Augh, how we wanted to wriggle away from it! Our black and Hispanic friends seemed all-knowing, almost invincible to us. They were like the superheroes of the neighborhood. They were clearly the best at anything that truly mattered to us kids: Loyalty. Cracking Jokes. Thinking Quickly. Musical Taste. Opening Up a Big Fresh Mouth. Playing Stickball and Basketball. Bravery. Resisting Pompous Authority Figures. Jumping Rope. Beating People Up. Telling It Like It Is. Hairdos.
Compared to them, we white kids were hothouse flowers—pampered, hesitant, gutless children who followed instructions and clung to our mothers. We were callow. We thought nothing of selling each other out for a baseball card or a Zagnut bar (I personally could be persuaded to change seats in the lunch room for a can of 7-Up). By contrast, if I just
looked
at one of the older Puerto Rican girls on the cafeteria line, her
friend
would say to me: “Ay, who you lookin’ at, girl? You lookin’ at my friend Diana, here? You better not be.”
With black and Puerto Rican kids, it wasn’t enough just to have the right dolls or an extra package of Devil Dogs. You had to be initiated into their friendships and prove your allegiance. “If you’re really my friend,” Alissa told me in the corridor at school, “then whatever you have to say, you say it to my face or not at all. You’re either straight with me, or you’re not with me. You got that?”
Of course, the great irony was that the black and Hispanic kids in our neighborhood were among the most vulnerable populations in America. Their toughness wasn’t a luxury or a fashion statement. It was a survival kit, plain and simple. But we little white kids were too young and naive to see that. All we saw when we looked at them was their strength and indifference, coupled with style—the fundamental essence of Cool. Black and Hispanic kids gave the impression of having thrown off all the humiliating albatrosses of childhood that the rest of us suffered with: the obedience, the dependence, the frustrating helplessness. Strangely, if they threatened us, it only fueled our desire to become more like them.
Remember, this was pre-MTV. This was long before white suburban kids started going around in baggy jeans with their underwear hanging out, rapping about being gangstas and givin’ a shout-out to their peeps. But already, we felt the irresistible tug: any white kid with kinky hair coaxed it into a “Jewfro,” then walked around with a pick stuck in it like a trophy. White teenaged girls started wearing T-shirts reading “Black Is Beautiful.” My friend Amy’s older brother hung out only with “the brothers,” dated only black and Hispanic girls, and spoke Spanish on the basketball court. All of us imitated the clothes, the speech, the walk of our black and Puerto
Similar Books
