So, I'm currently taking an Composition and Lit class (I'm having a ball in case you were wondering. Go English!) and our first assignment was to write a narrative about something formative, something that changed you or your view on life and yourself.
I ended up writing it, and then I decided to read it aloud and record it...and well....this is the result. I like it but eh... It's titled "Good Luck Fitting In" and I put the type below as well as a very important author's note!
Good Luck Fitting In
We’ll start with my name: Sammi, with an I not a Y. Only child, of a single
parent, and went to private school most of my life. Most of my life, however, there were
three or so years that I was stuck in public school. My mom always apologizes for it
and cringes any time I bring it up. She must remember more than I do, because I don’t
really remember much but a few choice phrases used against me.
I attended Hernwood Elementary from first grade to third grade, and well, they
weren’t my favorite years. In fact my mom and I were over the moon when I found out I
was accepted into Garrison Forest for middle school. You see I didn’t have much luck in
school in the first place. I was a gymnast, so being at the gym for nearly forty hours a
week didn’t really leave time for play dates with the minimal amount of friends I had; so
putting me into a decidedly more hostile environment could only mean one thing: I was
I was teased for being a girl and having short hair, I was teased for being a girl, I
was teased for having scars from gymnastics, I was teased for having a gap in my teeth
(Spongebob is what they called me), and all of that was fine, I didn’t really care until
someone called me a name I didn’t understand.
His name was Maurice. He was light skinned, had cornrows and pretty much
every elementary school girl infatuated with him. Myself, sadly, included. So when he
swaggered up to me (well as much as a seven year old could), I was excited and waited
to hear what he would say to me with baited breath, but when all that came out of his
mouth was “you’re just a little black bitch” I was confused. I knew that couldn’t be right,
that sounded too mean, too nasty, to come out of his mouth. And when I realized it
wasn’t his undying declaration to play with me forever during recess, I walked away.
That night I told my mom that “someone called me a black bitch, and I don’t
know why! I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t even hogging the swings!” She was shocked,
surprised, and furious. I remember her grumbling about “how could the teacher let this
happen?” and “why are kids so mean?” By the next morning she doubled her efforts to
trying to get me back into private school. I went to what seemed like millions of
interviews, took countless tests, and studied a sickening amount of mathematics
flashcards to ensure that I would be accepted.
Two years had passed when I got the letter, complete with calligraphy I could
barely read, and confetti I had a great time cleaning up, stating that I was accepted into
the Garrison Forest class of 2013, and would be attending the following September. I
was ecstatic, and so was my mom, so excited that she had told my teacher, and my
teacher decided to take it upon herself to announce my “accomplishment” to the entire
There was minimal applause, as much as could be expected by ten and eleven
year olds who didn’t care whether or not some girl was going to a fancy school they had
never heard of. We were dismissed for recess shortly, and little Maurice slinked up to
me. I was taller than him by now, and I hadn’t spoken, looked, or listened to him since
the “incident”. I intended to do the same thing now, except he had drawn a crowd, and
was practically sneering “Congratulations! You get to go to a rich white kids school.
And that was it. He snaked back from whence he came, and left me to marinate
on that phenomenal phrase. This time I didn’t tell my mom, this time, I filed that
sentence away, and it wasn’t until I was in ninth grade, surrounded by all of my “black
friends” that I realized something. I don’t like any of these people. Apparently my idea
of “fitting in” was to hide myself in a herd of people who looked exactly like me.
I was afraid to even think about not having black friends, because even if we
didn’t have anything in common, we had one thing in common. Being in the “black
group” made me feel safe, but isolate and bored, and I was so deeply embedded with
people that had nothing in common with me that I spent three years of my life hanging
around them when they didn’t watch the same TV shows, or listen to the same music
and I found myself trying to fit in somewhere I knew I would never belong. So I
I decided to figure out what I liked to listen to, and watch, and play, and do with
my free time. Not what was expected of me because I was in the “black group”. I was
never interested in rap music or black history, or any of the things that black people are
apparently obligated to know and love. I never really cared to learn about Rosa Parks
and Malcolm X, and when people would nudge me and say “hey those are your people,
right?” I never felt compelled to stand proud with a fist in the air and say “yes, those are
my people. Is there a problem with that?”
When people chose me for study groups when we were learning all about the
civil rights movement and expected me to know the anthem of the Black Panthers, and
looked at me as if I should know the entire “I Have A Dream” speech by heart, were
shocked when they realized, I didn’t, and in fact didn’t really care about it either. Some
fixed me with puzzled expressions and said “wait, shouldn’t you know all about this?”
As if being born black made me an expert on all things Civil Rights, Slavery, and R&B
That one phrase “good luck fitting in” made me realize that I didn’t want to, at
least not the way I was expected to. Not if I was just going to be categorized as one of
the black kids, hell I hardly even wanted to be black at that point. I wanted to be known
as Sammi, with an I not a Y. I wanted to be seen as my own person not the history of
my entire race. Yes, I am a black girl, but I didn’t live through slavery or the civil rights
movement, I don’t really care about black history, I’m way more interested in Greek
mythology and I’ll never be able to rap a full Busta Rhymes lyric without taking a breath
and yes some of my family are “typical black folk” in love with fried chicken, and grape
drank, but most of them have graduated college with master’s degrees. And they’ve
become their own people, so clearly, I can too.
Now after reading/hearing this, I don't want anyone to think that I am in anyway thankless, or ungrateful for all of the many sacrifices that people made so that I could speak this freely. My disinterest in black history should not be confused as disrespect. I am forever grateful for every trial and tribulation that black people have overcome for future generations and would never dare to forget or negate that!
Thanks,
~~Sammi P : )
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