Not Black, Not White
by Amanda Enayati
Sunday, July 13, 1997; Page C01
The Washington Post
A few weeks ago, I accompanied an old friend from law school to another
schoolmate's birthday party at a local bar. Although I knew roughly
half the people at the gathering, I was greeted with cold nods or curt
hellos. Many of those to whom I was introduced did not bother to look me
in the eye.
What strange gathering of friends and acquaintances was this? It was a
group of African American men and women, many of whom went to law school
with me. I am an Iranian woman, one who can't pass as white because I'm
too dark, but certainly can't pass as black because I have Middle
Eastern features. For all intents and purposes, though, I was white --
and not welcome -- that night.
As I tried to fight back the hurt, and to ignore the isolation that I
was feeling, I reflected on the bizarre racial divide that separates
people in this country in so many subtle and pernicious ways. Why is it
that when it is convenient to the black community, I am considered black
or at least "down with the cause"? And when it's inconvenient, I am
looked upon as an outsider, or, worse, dismissed as another of those
women trying to infiltrate the community for the sole purpose of
stealing a strong black man who really belongs with a beautiful strong
black woman.
Don't get me wrong. There are two players in this perverse game of
racial chess, each player claiming the unfortunate pawn at his
convenience. Often enough I've heard off-hand comments such as, "Oh,
you're okay. You could totally be white," from some well-meaning, and
yet ignorant, white person who does not realize that my silence in
response is not an assent but a stunned pain shooting through me like an
unexpected slap in the face. And yet, in gatherings of white people, it
is made more than clear --overtly or not -- that I do not belong, that
somehow they're superior, smarter, prettier, better, more efficient.
This struggle to feel comfortable in my skin has been my daily companion
for almost 20 years. I was only 10 in 1978 when my parents, fearful of
prerevolutionary rumblings, put me on a plane out of Iran. Their promise
to join me was not fulfilled until several years later. By then, I had
bounced between relatives and acquaintances in five different countries,
adapting as I went along. Finally, in the early 1980s, my whole family
reunited in the States. Even as a teenager I could sense some sort of
tension between the races here, and that most immigrants would prefer to
be associated with the white community. There's certainly a twisted
logic to that. Many immigrants are escaping from some sort of
persecution and repression in their native lands. Who wants to come to
a new country and be identified with the persecuted and repressed?
But for me, the choice was not so clear-cut. Once in the United States,
I was raised in the Baha'i community in Los Angeles. The Baha'i Faith
prizes diversity, and Baha'i communities all over the world are rich
with people of all hues and colors. Growing up in L.A., my hanging
buddies were black, white, Asian, Latino, Middle Eastern, African,
Samoan, you name it.
The years advanced, and things grew more complex. As an undergraduate
at UCLA, I could barely stand to be on campus. Despite the variety of
races and nationalities represented, many students hung out in ghettos
of sorts. I suppose I was expected to join the Iranian crowd, but I
resisted. In many ways, my years of roaming the world had changed me --
I was less of a traditional Iranian and more of a ... who knows what? I
wanted to be with the blacks and the whites and the Asians and the
Latinos -- all at the same time.
In 1990, I moved to the East Coast to attend law school at Howard
University. Naively, I reasoned that at a historically black university
like Howard -- with its glorious mission and tradition of justice --
race and nationality would be a less-central issue, more of a backdrop
against which a person's true character would play out. I was mistaken.
Within the first few weeks of school, people positioned themselves and
each other. There were those who were down, those who were sell-outs,
those who were progressive, and then there were the lowest of the low --
the not-so-small percentage of white students. And it became quite
clear that no one knew what to do with me.
"What do you consider yourself?" I was asked one night as I was typing
away in the computer room. I remember my profound confusion at the
question. Instinctively, I felt it was some sort of trap God and my
fellow students were laying for me. If I said I thought of myself as
black, I would somehow feel as if I were choosing sides and selling out
the principle that is most fundamental to my life: that all people are
one and that someday we'll all be unified as a human race.
If, on the other hand, I said that I did not consider myself black, then
I feared I would be subjected to the same sort of contempt and isolation
that many of the white students suffered -- something I was not prepared
to do, no matter how noble and self-righteous I felt.
Desperate for an escape, I said the first irrelevant cliche that came
into my head. "I'm a world citizen," I muttered, burying my head
further into the keyboard. But my answer that night had little to do
with the way I was treated in the ensuing three years. How many times
did I hear that I was not black and would therefore never understand?
or, alternatively, that all people of color were in the same predicament
and had to unify against white repression?
I was stunned to learn that I would not be allowed to join BLSA -- the
Black Law Students Association -- the existence of which in a majority
black school seemed almost immoral to me, given that no students of any
other race were allowed to join. My first impulse had been to argue
with the man sitting behind the table with the introductory fliers. He
looked me in the eye and said, "Look, if you're not black, then as far
as I'm concerned, you're white." What was I to do, start an "ILSA" of
which I would be the sole member? What were the white students supposed
to do, start a "WLSA" -- how acceptable was that?
Despite the strange dynamics, my three years at Howard were glorious.
Many dear friends loved me without reservation. And to them I
complained, loudly and incessantly, about what was going on. After all,
shouldn't African Americans -- of all people -- know better than to hold
race against others? I was never so surprised as when one day, a close
friend turned to me and snapped, "How dare you hold black people to a
higher standard of morality?" I had no answer.
After graduating from law school in 1993, I landed in a law firm in the
Midwest, where, two years after its abrupt end, Desert Storm was still
on people's minds. Over the next few years, incident after incident
convinced me that I had landed in the twilight zone instead. I huddled
in the corner of my downtown Indianapolis apartment as the Klan marched
less than a block away three times in eight months. I endured my car
being vandalized twice -- in Bloomington and Chicago -- each time after
I was stared down by hostile-looking groups of white people. I heard
myself described in some interesting combinations of words -- none
flattering. And I survived the indignity of being one of two brown faces
who were thrust to the forefront of certain firm functions.
If they did not represent such a tragic aspect of our society, my
experiences would almost read like a comedy. When I date black men, I
receive animosity from those who feel that black men belong with black
women. When I date white men, I've been accused of selling out and
trying to be white. Iranian men who expect me to fit within a certain
mold find me strange. I also seem to have this peculiar power to make
people at airports and train stations visibly uncomfortable.
The racial dynamics in this country are no longer about black and white;
there are a whole lot of us grays in between -- and we are not going
anywhere. As disheartening as they may seem, my collective experiences
make sense to me. I have forged for myself a new identity, one that
transcends race, one that sometimes makes me and those who come into
contact with me uncomfortable . . . for now. Blacks may not always
accept me, whites may consider me an outsider, but I see a greater
wisdom at play. In the first 10 years of my life, I lived in a
completely homogenous society, where everyone looked like me. The next
20 years I spent in the company of people from the world over. And I
shall never again be content to associate solely with one group or
another. I have learned that when you stretch the boundaries of your
comfort zone, the limitations you once accepted become intolerable.
Racial or national pride is unquestionably important. I do not wear the
badge of "honorary white" or "honorary black" comfortably, and I am
proud of the 2,500 years of Persian history that precedes me. But so
long as we see ourselves as disjointed and separate, so we shall be.
When I was little, my grandfather would lean in and whisper old Persian
stories in my ear. I remember him saying, "Standing before his Maker,
Vahid bowed his head and said, But, Lord, I spent my life serving my
brethren. With all my heart and soul, I loved my brothers and sisters.
And as to those whom I treated with far less humanity . . . well Lord, I
have a very good historical reason for that.'"
Amanda Enayati is a consultant who lives in Washington.
[note: while the graphics for this piece have not been included, the
following captions explain what they originally were.]
@CAPTION: FINDING THEIR WAY IN THE USA
These images are from a 1993 book called "Irangeles: Iranians in Los
Angeles" (University of California Press), about the complexity of
Iranian life in a city that is home to a sizable proportion of America's
immigrant populations.
@CAPTION: Iranian Student Group dance at UCLA, 1987.
@CAPTION: At an anti-Iranian rally at the Los Angeles Coliseum during
the hostage crisis in 1979.
@CAPTION: Daughter and mother at a Persian New Year's picnic near
Irvine, Calif. Two weeks after the new year, Iranian families celebrate
in the country and toss away their containers of grass, which are part
of the new year tradition.(One is playfully perched atop the young
woman's head.)
Copyright ©1997 The Washington Post
|