Identity Crisis By Drexler B. James I am very comfortable with myself.

I love who I am, and have a lot of confidence and pride that I carry around with me like a banner in my heart. I love the fact that I am an AfricanAmerican male, that I come from a history of very strong people who had to endure so much, from slavery down to even hidden racism today. Im proud of my heritage and my history and how learning it has shaped me into the person I am today. But, this confidence, this pride, has not always existed. When I was younger, in elementary school, I began to question some of the things I saw. We lived right up the street from a mostly black elementary school. A lot of the neighborhood kids went to that school. But my mom sent me to another school; a mostly white school on the other side of town. She would take me before she went to work (she was a second-grade teacher at another elementary school not too far from my school). I often asked why I was put in this school, but she never gave me a straight answer. I was teased a lot in elementary school and it made me feel really bad about myself. I got into a lot of trouble; I guess you can say I was rebelling at a young age. I dont know why I was so angry, but I think it was an early sign of trying to find my identity. I wanted to go to the black school with the other kids who looked like me, instead of a school where most of the kids were pale and teased me for looking so different; for having a big, wide nose, thick kinky hair, dark brown skin, and big lips. My nose was actually the favorite joking point for a lot of students. I would cry a lot and would even lose my temper because I was so angry. I didnt understand why I was so different. When I reached about fourth grade, I began to use difference to my advantage. I used it as a story of being the underdog, which helped me to become a dominating force. I won the
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school speech contest two years in a row, back-to-back, and made it to the county championship both times. I proved that I was a very strong student-all through fourth grade, I received straight As in all my studies. I also was noted for my singing and my writing skills. I also was becoming more comfortable with my classmates and the teasing was starting to come less and less. I thought I was at last sure of who I was. But my time in elementary school came to a sudden end and I found myself thrown into middle school. It was a huge culture shock for me; I now had black classmates. The teasing retuned, but this time at least twenty-fold. Because I had become so used to only being around whites, I wasnt considered black, but instead a over tanned white kid. Ill admit, even my own comments and reacts to situations didnt exactly help make my case of being an AfricanAmerican. The strange thing about middle school was that the pride I had began to take in my heritage was lost. I didnt understand what it meant to be black anymore. The pride of being a strong and resilient people was lost to such foolishness. The definition was suddenly changed to something so distant from what I was used to knowing it to be. To be black at this point meant to be an idiot, a buffoon, a meathead whose only career goals was playing sports, rapping, or doing crimes to survive. I would be the smartest black kid in my class-and this time, I wasnt the only black in the class! I was just the smartest. But that wasnt the only thing that threw me for a loop. The definition of manhood was shifting around. I was now exposed to guys who didnt have a father in their house like I did, who had been forced to create their own definition of being a man. But, their definition was so silly to me (I attribute that to having actually had a dad at home to teach me how to me a man).

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Their definition was tied to their own egos of being the biggest, the meanest, the strongest. By seventh grade, I was told my fellow black classmates that I wasnt a real, black man. It stung, made me often reevaluate myself while watching them for tips on becoming this new definition of the real, black man of America. My fellow peers looked like serious adult bodybuilders by the time we were in eighth grade, and I was standing on the brink of being nearly 250lbs. Depression settled in along with insecurities. I tried to ignore the hurt and pain, but it drove me crazy, eating me like a disease from the inside out. This definition of being a real black man followed me into high school, where I thought I could escape it. But less than a week into my freshman year of high school, I found myself trapped into the same vicious cycle of my manhood and my blackness being questioned-by those whom I called friends! It was terrible. Out of shape, overweight, and depressed, I didnt know which way to turn at this point. I swallowed the lies the way I would swallow pills. I snapped and began to conform to the ways of the world. I tried to fit Americas definition of who I was. My individuality was lost. My parents noticed the change right away; my grades dropped, I skipped class, I became very rude to people, I wasnt interested in church, nothing seemed to faze me. I kept the truth inside of me; that I was trying to be a black man. It seems silly yes, but at the time, it was the only way to gain any type of acceptance from my fellow black classmates. But I wasnt happy. My depression grew worse, until it reached the point where suicide was actually an option. Whenever I went home to wash the dishes, I would spent at least five minutes gazing at the big butcher knife. I imagined sliding it across my neck or plunging it into my chest, the blood spewing and splattering across the clean white and tan kitchen like a dark red geyser. I

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envisioned my funeral, with only parents and my little sister there, the rest of the world outside the church, singing, shouting, and celebrating. This type of thinking followed me into my sophomore year of high school. Once I became a sophomore, however, I began to find myself redefining what it meant to be a black man. I started reading and studying more and more factual statistics and noticing how the statistics I read matched up with the thinking of society. I realized that I had to be that one person who didnt TALK about making a change or a difference, but actually MADE that said difference. Armed with a new fire of my pride and heritage, I began taking, what was then unknown, small steps to breaking this mentality. I began to study harder in school, make good grades. But more than that, I became involved with my community, especially volunteering with children at a local history museum to get them interested in education. These efforts produced a lot of media and local recognition for me, but that wasnt what I was doing this for. It was my passion. I was changing the definition of black men. To this day, I dont know if I can say I have successful, but I can truly say this much. My identity crisis period of my life is over. I know that the negative definition of a black man still exists today, floating somewhere in the world like a piece of paper on a breeze. But, there is now a positive definition, one that actually fits me. No more searching lost for who I am, no more trying to redefine myself. I know who I am, both as a African-American and as a man. Im not going to go back to being lost. Because being lost can be an adventure, but finding myself is more fun than wandering around without a clue.

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