“Chloe, you’re the whitest black girl I’ve ever known.”

Whitest black girl.

These words has attached itself to my body ever since I’ve step foot with the same indecisive class into the beacon of high school.

Was it an insult?

Or more of a compliment?

Common sense and anxiety wrestled around with each other inside my head each and every time I walked through the hallways...surrounded by you should’s and you shouldn’t’s.

Do this and Don’t do that.

Stereotypes, for most lifetimes, have invaded our mind space and thought processes, hidden on the sidelines, like ticks waiting to sink their claws into their newly-found hosts. Their main habitat being high school itself.

Everyone knew that white people were the more...composed and professional race, whereas the African Americans, on the other hand? They were the louder batch from the cookie sheet we call society.

Which made me think, was I acting to “white” for my own race? Was I not being “black” enough?

I remember quite well, growing up, I wasn’t exposed to much of my own culture as I would have liked to be. Being raised in highly populated white neighborhoods, all I’ve ever known was that  fitting in was the only way I would survive in this, especially with being one of the only few African Americans. All I had to do was... wait for the opportunity to be with my own people.

And did those opportunities come?

They did. But they weren’t exactly what met my expectations.

Not only did I not feel welcomed and accepted by the white community, I didn’t find myself filling that void that so longed to be accepted by the ones with my own skin color.

It felt exactly the same.

Why didn’t I feel one with my own people? Was there something wrong with me?

Combined with seeing my mom with her friends, chatting and going out on bowling alley dates, and the mediocre, but powerful comments from my fellow classmates, it only added more to my increasing insecurities.

Of course, I learned to deal with bug that was now hanging over my head, whether that be acting as the lone wolf of my class or focusing on my studies.

But as I got older, something twisted my perspective just a little. I started connecting with all kinds of people, people who I found interesting, despite whatever skin color or ethnic they were. We bonded over all kinds of things: different foods we liked, T.V. shows people force us to look at, actors we’d drop everything for.

And in that moment, I knew the answer to the question that had forced its way inside my head and permanently moved in.

I wasn’t weird at all.

In that moment, I was only merely colorblind, and only wonderous about the things that flowed out of their mouths.

I didn’t care if I didn’t stick by only one race, because I didn’t see it that way. I was attracted to people who looked at the world a bit differently or who was going through the same hormones as I was or who I could solely search for a laugh with.

It was ok to explore outside your perceptions.

Because skin color and race has no boundaries in my book.