playing pretend

I haven't been able to write lately because I realized what my grand problem this past year has been, but I'm happier now.

Notes By Gen 🔆: This is a personal essay I wrote for my class at Columbia this summer, but I think it should be here, too. This event happened many months ago, and although I wish I could say I just left, and that was the end, it wasn’t. It took me a long time to leave this place and a whole lot longer to realize why. I wish therapy could have spelled this out for me, but I quit before I could really talk about it. I think being a young black girl navigating "who you are allowed to be” can be really difficult, and it’s no one’s fault, but I hope at the very least I’m not alone in this feeling.

*my bedroom window, I miss it every day.

As I sit on my "friend's" dorm bed, the laughter of the party and vodka buzz swirl around me; I am drowning in an overwhelming sense of disconnection. My friends are obsessed in their conversations, their smiles wide and genuine, but I can’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. I'm counting down the days until the semester ends, each one bringing me closer to the freedom of shedding this carefully constructed persona. 

I remember the mornings before the first day of elementary school when my mother told me to be myself, and my father assured me that I could do anything I wanted in life. I knew even then what they really meant. I would convince them to buy me the latest pair of UGGs or beg for a golden retriever or an American Girl doll just like all the other girls at school, not because I actually wanted them but so that I could relate to them. So that I could be like them. So that they would like me. I’ve always believed it is better to be sad surrounded by people than sad alone.

It wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I tested being myself. I stopped caring if I was loud or abrasive; I just wanted to be me. I felt free, but this freedom wasn’t extensive. My parents didn't love it, this seemingly rebellious streak I had inherited amidst my teenage angst. They wanted a version of me that was palatable, not too loud, not too abrasive—still me but watered down. I couldn’t be known as the typical Black girl, but I couldn’t be the whitewashed one either.

At home, there were strict ideals for how I must act. Family dinners would end in tears and haunting anecdotes of how “If you cry at a job, you’d be fired,” but this wasn't a job—this was supposed to be home. My need for rest was a privilege that never extended beyond my bedroom. My room was the only place I could be myself. I think back to those nights by my bedroom window, watching military planes take off and writing down every word I wish I could say, dreaming of a day I could fly away and live freely. I thought New York would be that place, but I’ve only dug myself deeper into my hole of pretension. 

When I chose to go to college in New York, I thought I would find the freedom I craved. I believed I could be a person who fit perfectly into every standard to be accepted. I am a girl who is dedicated to school, dressed with the latest trends, and finally fits into a group. I am the girl I thought I’d always wanted to be. But here I am, sitting on a dorm bed, realizing this construction of me doesn’t exist. Every word I've said is calculated. I can’t say exactly what I want because, in their eyes, it would be out of character. I am pretending to be someone I'm not, and the act is draining me dry. How did I let myself play pretend for so long? Little parts of myself have been slipping out, and I can no longer ignore them.

As I sit on this bed, surrounded by “friends” who don’t really know me, I make the decision. I stand on wobbling legs, stumbling out of the room, leaving the party behind. When I leave, no one asks why.