She wanted Gee to know this music was for him, that irreverence and rage weren’t just for white boys. He could get a little drunk if he wanted to; he could play in a band; he could say shocking things, wear a dress, pierce his ears, any part of his body that he wanted; he could scream and break things, as long as they belonged to him and it wasn’t in her house. She didn’t want him to act out, but she didn’t want him to worry too much about how the world would see him either. He’d wind up only punishing himself. She wanted him to be free.
Related to this so hard. As a Black girl growing up in white spaces, I learned how to be palatable and make sure I wasn’t seen as too much of any one thing. The pressure to be perfect was suffocating and is something I’m still unlearning. The freedom to express a full range of emotions and to live without the your actions being attributed to your race is a birth right for white people and a privilege we don’t discuss enough. To be white is to be seen as an individual. To be a poc is to be seen largely as interchangeable. I wish for all Black children to grow up with the freedom to make choices based on their own desires thoughts and feelings without worrying about if they’re perpetuating a stereotype. We’re not spokespeople for an entire race.
