Black like me

The problem with Princeton University is not PU itself — it's the term "P.C." I can't tell you how many times I have sat in a classroom listening to people stumbling and stammering, trying to say the words "African-American." They desperately try to ignore the syllable that mistakenly escapes from their lips: "Bla—." They scan the crowd for a face like mine, before realizing that the escaped "Bla—" might just render them a racist, a non-sympathizer or, God forbid, not "P.C."

I sit around and listen to some of the students from the Caribbean distinguish themselves from black Americans. Some proclaim they don't want to be associated with the stigmas that are attached to black Americans. They imply that they are incapable of understanding the plight and cultural identity of black Americans — after all, they "were not raised here." They can't understand the theory of the "white oppressor" — they are the majority in their land. I look at them and wonder if they realize that by saying these things, they are supporting a social structure that continues to stigmatize the culture of black Americans.

I sit around and listen to some of the African students who sever and belittle any connection that black Americans feel with "The Motherland." I listen to an African woman tell me she simply cannot live with a black American. We don't have good habits, don't know how to "keep" food, we're dirty. Our hair . . . Sound familiar? You would think it was a forgotten scene from "Birth of a Nation." I look at her and wonder if she realizes it is the struggle of black Americans living in this country that made it possible for her to sit next to this "dirty, poor habit-toting person" in a classroom.

I sit around and listen to some of the biracial students who refuse to acknowledge the pervasiveness of the "one-drop" rule in their lives and embrace their blackness only when it is seen in addition to their whiteness. I sit around and listen to the woman whose militant rejections of her blackness dissolve her memory of having checked a particular box during the admissions process.

I sit around and listen to the student rockin' the "Love Sees No Color" T-shirt, voicing profundities of: "Dude, race is irrelevant. When I see a woman, I see her for her — not her color." I listen to the lie. I look at him and wonder if he knows her color is part of who makes her who she is, that it is as important as all her other characteristics. I wonder if she realizes her color has been deemed an irrelevant feature. I look at him and wonder if he realizes that by pretending to ignore her race, he highlights it. After all, when one sees a rose, he notices it is red or pink or yellow, and there is nothing wrong with acknowledging the color. But to say one never notices the color is preposterous.

I sit around and listen to some of the members of the administration herald their efforts to achieve a more diverse campus. I watch them as they equate black with "of African descent," meaning Caribbean and African — and oh yeah, if we have room, perhaps we will let a few black Americans in. I mean after all, "They were raised here." I wonder if they are able to hide their snickering when they listen to a student with a dark brown face say he is not "black" — he's Haitian. I wonder if they care.

I listen to some of the social commentary on the black aesthetic and black celebrities, and I listen to the distinctions that roll from their tongues. "Oh, Halle Berry is so beautiful — you know her mother is white." Or, "Oh Iman is so beautiful — you know she's from Somalia." Or, "Yes, I am a wonderful golfer — you know I'm Calibrasian," or whatever. Distinction. Distinction. Distinction. I am tired of the world fleeing from its blackness. I wonder why it is such a horrible thing to be black. It must be — even the blackest of blacks refuse to be classified as such. I mean, it must be a good thing that "Massa" freed us from the burden of having to be, God forbid, just plain black Americans.

Forgive me while I correct the woman across from me and free her from the responsibility that the era of political correctness has cast upon her. Forgive me for being proud to stop seeking my culture past the great-great-grandparents of my great-grandmother's father. Forgive me for embracing the beginning of my cultural identity with slavery. Forgive me for refusing to accept African American as my namesake. After all, I was raised here. After all, I like my inability to "keep" food — was that it?

So, girlfriend, don't get flustered trying to identify me. Say what you see: black, or mahogany, if you prefer. But please, call me black. Call me black. Call me black. Call me black. Laura Coates is a Wilson School major from St. Paul, Minn. She can be reached at lgcoates@princeton.edu.