Blinded by Color

Chapter 11 Tiffany

This morning around four am, we had a family come into the ER stating that the father was unresponsive. The wife and daughters were a mess crying and screaming that they needed a doctor. Doctor Mychal was in surgery already, so I was on deck. I came in asking the first responders what was going on? While I was trying to get information to potentially save this man's life, the wife began screaming, "I don't want that nigger touching my husband. Keep your paws off of him. Get me someone else! Get me a real doctor! This black bitch is going to kill him!" It's amazing she knew I was an African American, but on the same token, she missed the part where I share her color and heritage as well. She was blinded by the tan I have and the poofy hair I wear on my head. She missed my educated brain that gives me the skills to save her husband. My 4.4 GPA and my honors achievements. She didn't see the ribbons I wore at graduation for being in the top three percent of my graduating class or the first picked draft to work for Doctor Mychal. Nope, she could only see my color. Of course, I can get her an all-white doctor, but will they have my skills? My knowledge? My abilities? Probably not! It's a busy night in here. However, I have to mind my manners and take the hate with a grain of salt. It kills me to apologize for the color of my skin. It hurts my heart to have to pretend I am not black, but if it means saving a human's life, then I will do just that.

Growing up here in one of Chicago's most prestigious neighborhoods, I was exposed to lots of parties and affluent people. I grew up in Lincoln Park, and my mother was a successful broker, and my father was a professor. I attended the best schools and took part in gymnastics and piano lessons. Eventually, my talents advanced, and I was in a club and competed at the state level as a gymnast. My father taught theology, so I was prone to being a history buff. My parents chose not to have any other children as I was their pride and joy. My mother raised me to be a kind, bright, remarkable young lady because she told me the world would not accept me. I am mixed, and as a biracial woman, I have to decide on a daily basis which race I most relate to because people have a hard time accepting you as both. I get hell from both sides. For instance, at work, the black woman will make snood remarks about my light skin and tell me I am not a true Sista! I just brush it off, but deep down, I feel like an outcast. At school, growing up, I was treated like the white girl. I am neither, just white or black, but I feel like everyone expects me to choose a side and stick to it. I remember attending a piano recital and hearing a little girl whisper to her mom that my hair was frizzy and my mom should learn how to brush it. I remember my first day at summer camp for gymnasts and being pointed at by the white girls who said my braids made me look like a man, and by the end of summer, I was called everything from brownie to nigger. I have never felt comfortable in my own skin, and I have suffered for a long time trying to understand the hate people have towards me as a biracial individual. When I first began med school, I remember feeling exposed and like I had to prove myself. It's a feeling none of my white friends understood. Living in an affluent area, most of my friends were white, but I never really knew if they were my real friends. It's hard to say if I was just a ploy for them to look like they weren't racist or if they really did like me. I spent many nights crying to my mom, telling her I felt lost and unaccepted, and she would tell me that was a part of life as a black woman. She explained to me that even if you had the smallest drop of black in your blood line, 1/8th to be exact, you were considered black. She told me I had a fighting chance to prove that black women can be doctors and a good one at that. She pushed me hard. My mom pushed me to be the best gymnast, the best pianist, and the best student. She stressed the importance to me of being seen as the underdog. I always felt like my mom referred to me as black because she was black. It was weird how I never felt like she truly saw me as biracial. I find it hard to date and find someone who will accept me for being a combination of races. I hear some of my colleagues say, "Well, in the winter, you have white passing girl." I am not looking to pass as white or gain the so-called white privilege. I just want to be me and not have to choose. People don't realize how hard it is to find where you fit in when you aren't wanted by either side. I experienced a lot of racism when I was younger with my braided hair and dark brown skin. As I have gotten older, my tan is not so prominent, as I never lie or play in the sun. I honestly don't have time. My hair is still a curly afro, but I get Keratin straighteners to keep it at bay. My features are all big. I have big pouty lips that most white girls pay big money for, my eyes are huge, and I have super long lashes. I am tall and stand at 5'8 without heels. I have a tan compared to the white girls but nothing crazy. My nose is average and pierced twice! I have two rings on my left nostril. I am closing in on 150 pounds, but it's all in the back and thighs. My waist has always stayed small, but my lower half is a bit thicker. I have very cut arms, and I owe that to gymnastics and genetics. My chest is an average C cup, and therefore, I see myself as your everyday average woman. When people meet me, they always seem to feel the need to ask me where I am from. Well, actually, I am from here, Chicago. It blows my mind. They act as if I am some kind of exotic being from outer space. Honestly, I don't see what difference it makes how I look. As long as I do my job to save your life or your family members' life, it should have no bearing on what I look like. My mother did make me learn a second language, and for that, I am forever grateful because when I let my Spanish tongue take over, it really gets the attention of bystanders. Either way, I love the way I look; I just need to figure out how to get everyone else to accept it. How to teach the world not to be blinded by color. I wish for one day everyone was color blind. I wish they could no longer see you as a race or ethnicity, but we were all orange. No one had special features, and we just looked the same! Could you imagine what a boring world that would be? I think it would be the wake-up call we have all been waiting for, though! A world where we all wear the same color and look exactly alike, a world without diversity, a world where we weren't blinded by color!