STRONG BLACK GIRL

Years ago, while creating a profile for a dating site, I came up with a line which I'm still prone to using: "Essentially, I'm a strong Black Woman with a cleaning fetish. (Think Oprah with a Dust Buster)". The ensuing profile regurgitated that comedic motif, ad nauseam, forming what I would refer to as my "wall of comedy", designed to ensure I remained single.

There was, of course, a method to my madness. If my absurdist humor proved too much for potential dates, no doubt the real me would wear them out. I'd imagined some would find it funny and some would find it tiresome. What I hadn't imagined is that anyone might take it literally. However, one day I received a private message from someone who took that Oprah-Dust Buster line completely at face value, and asked if I am really Black and/or trans? Even though I was mildly stunned that such an obvious joke needed explanation, his question actually got ME asking myself, how much of that absurdist humor is based in reality. The answer is: more than you might think.

Certainly, I am obsessively clean and find Zen, meditative happiness in the ritual of household chores. Then there's the seeming incongruity of the fact that, to this day, the "group" with which I automatically feel the greatest sense of safety, is NOT my own tribe of older, White men, but middle-aged Black Women. Of the various demographic groups I can think, that's the one with which I have some of the most positive associations, as well as the 'expectation' of acceptance for me, in all my quirkiness.

If that sounds odd, allow me to break it down.

Growing up as "the loud Brooklyn Italians" in our St Petersburg, Florida neighborhood of WASPy Military families, I certainly did not see us as "White", but some variation of "ethnic". And it was immediately apparent that our neighbors viewed our family as a little too... colorful for their taste.

For a number of reasons, I was ostracized and bullied for the majority of my school career.

And while there were individual students who were friendly toward me, I'd hesitate to refer to any of them as actual "friends". As a perfect misfit, there was no group or clique of which I could count myself a member.

There was, however, ONE 'group', upon which I could consistently count for acceptance and validation: Black Girls (and by 'group', I'm probably thinking of 10 to 15 individual girls, from my various classes, who were themselves, not all friends with one another). Perhaps, because I was so clearly NOT one of them and therefore posed no competitive "threat", they offered me the greatest sense of recognition and appreciation, laughing at all of my silly jokes, praising me to the Heavens for my drawing and singing, and even 'teasing' me in the most good natured way (it was routinely observed that I had a butt "like a Black Boy", which they DEFINITELY meant as a compliment).

I entered the First Grade in 1970, when Segregation was still fresh in most people's memories. However, I had minimal to no awareness of the history of oppression of African Americans. I was totally ignorant that those happy, vibrant, and wonderfully accepting young 'Black Girls' were, themselves dealing with being judged, rejected and ostracized, within a predominantly White, suburban school. I suspect it was their own marginalization which informed their kindness--taking pity on me as someone even lower on the Popularity Totem Pole than themselves.

Of course, these were nothing more than the first, though powerfully formative, associations made upon my young, impressionable mind, while attending Shore Acres Elementary School.

There was, however, one young Black girl who did not project, what I saw as, the characteristic happiness and confidence of the others. Yet oddly enough, hers is the only name which instantly leaps to mind.

Sarah was shy, soft spoken, and painfully thin. It appeared she owned just three or four modest print dresses, all of which revealed toothpick thin legs, capped in roomy shoes worn without socks. Like me, Sarah was relentlessly bullied and a misfit among misfits. Unlike me, however, even the 'Black Girls' treated Sarah like shit.

Whereas I dealt with the sting of not belonging by blaming myself, "shy and quiet" Sarah had a rebellious quality about her, with a far better instinct for self-preservation, and the courage to defend herself against constant attackers -- a quality I came to emulate and imitate, eventually learning to kick the ass of anyone who challenged me to a fight. And while I wouldn't go so far as to call Sarah my "friend", I certainly felt a kinship with her. She also inspired in me, a kind of protective instinct, as she was so very small and seemed so all alone in the world.

As any outsider child will attest, "Recess" can be one of the most feared words in the English language. It's the time when largely unsupervised students are left to their own devices. It's prime time for bullies hunting easy prey. The fact that a child has no friends is never more evident than when children are free to play with whomever they choose.

Hence, Sarah and I would sometimes keep one another's company, although, admittedly, she was never much of a talker. She seemed to find me amusing, although I don't recall her ever actually laughing or even smiling. I doubt that the feeling was mutual, but I liked Sarah.

However, a day would soon come when I too would want nothing more to do with her.

I have no recollection of what led up to the event, but I'll never forget the image of a cloud of dust rising over a group of students, who formed a circle, into which they took turns running, to punch and slap poor Sarah, who stood alone in the center, her eyes shut tight, her arms swinging wildly, like two windmills off their axes. I immediately dove into the center of the mob to protect her, but in the insanity of the moment, she assumed I was part of the pack of attackers and proceeded to beat the shit out of me, even after she recognized who I was.

Naturally, all the little bullies thought this was hysterical. Ironically, it was Sarah and I who ended up in front of the principal for fighting, even though all I did was stand there and get pummeled. At the time, Sarah was unimpressed by my argument that I had been trying to help her, which is something I could not understand, nor forgive. Looking back, of course, I can see how this poor little girl probably had the belief that the whole world was out to get her and couldn't believe that I was any different.

Sarah and I never spoke again, finally going our separate ways to different Middle Schools.

As a 52-year-old man, reflecting on these memories, I felt overcome with sadness at what that poor little girl had to endure, and I was angry at myself for failing to see that when it would have mattered the most.

This reflection on things past, not only allowed me to 'forgive' Sarah, but by excavating her memory, I could see how she had been an important figure in the formation of my own identity, because I so admired, and aspired to, the strength she possessed, to fight for herself, even if she believed NO ONE else in the world had her back.