ficpost/thought experiment - ibarw - "Reflections/on my reflection" - CA Diaries - Ducky
Title: "Reflections/on my reflection"
Fandom: California Diaries
Featured character: Ducky.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Ann M. Martin owns the copyright and Scholastic owns Ann; Peter Lerangis wrote him, and I just love him way too much.
Notes: A thought experiment in sympathy with International Blog Against Racism Week. And yes, I will write the drabbles eventually. But now it's way past bedtime.
Summary: What if Ducky were black? or Ducky thinks about race.
Wordcount: 706
Reflections
on my reflection
You look in the mirror and you see someone who is:
-on the short side
-black
-male
-wearing jeans and a button-down plaid shirt, and sneakers.
So why bother looking in the mirror in the first place? It's not like you've changed since the last time you looked, not like you've grown any taller or whiter or more interesting. Maybe you could use a haircut, but that's not why Mr. Schafer looked at you like that when you drove Dawn home after school today.
You wonder what you look like from the outside, what Dawn sees, or Sunny, or Mr. Schafer. You're so used to knowing what it's like on the inside, how you manipulate your body through three dimensions and how you keep your head high and how you're so careful when you walk that you don't strut because God knows the Cro-Mags love a challenge and you don't flit because you KNOW what would happen if you did, and your stride, like your style, is nondescript preppy, and you know that the black kids think you're an Uncle Tom and that the white girls and Amelia think you're harmless, and maybe you are. You try to be.
But Mr. Schafer looked at you and that's not what he saw. He saw something that wasn't in you, but something in your skin, in your sex. You're the older black boy who drove his daughter home from school, and can you really blame him for the frostiness in his tone, the hesitation before his handshake? You felt, suddenly, desperate to impress upon him that you're safe.
That you're safe. That you've been a good friend for his daughter, that you won't take her to rap concerts, that you won't try to date her, that you won't -- you can't even write it, can't even think it, you would never. You're safe.
You'd like to think you're safe from racism, that Vista and by extension Palo City are, for all their problems, colorblind and racially harmonious. Yes, you grew up here; yes, you remember second grade, and you've seen what's written in the men's room but maybe those things are just aberrations; maybe it's just Cro-Mags being Cro-Mags and it's not symptomatic of anything, and it certainly doesn't have anything to do with you.
When Dawn and Sunny and Maggie practically refused to get in the car with you the night of the party, that wasn't because you were black; it was because you were an upperclassman, and male. (Not to mention it was after dark, and Sunny was drunk, and your car is, admittedly, not much to look at, let alone drive in.)
And if you believe that, Ducky, maybe you'll believe that when Jason -- sorry, Jay -- uses the n-word, it's because he LIKES you, because he UNDERSTANDS you, because he's JUST ONE OF THE GUYS, and not because he's a raging, racist asshole.
And if you believe THAT, you probably believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and that your parents will come back from Ghana with plenty of presents and will stay in California for good this time.
Which reminds you of another thing, how upset you get when you tell people your parents are in Ghana and they get this look of understanding on their faces and go, "Oh, do you have family there?" or "So that's where you're from!" and don't really believe you when you explain that actually, you've never been to Africa and actually, your parents' work has nothing to do with where their great-great-grandparents were born. Then you feel guilty for feeling upset, and wonder if you're being defensive, or overly sensitive, if that's the identity you've been searching for: He Who Overthinks and Overreacts.
You think about the clothes you wear, the manner you adopt, the manic joking, the all-nighters, the shoulder to cry on, everything that you use to project the personality you wish you had, and you wonder if maybe all that work is, in fact, POINTLESS, if the first thing everyone sees will always be the color of your skin.
Fandom: California Diaries
Featured character: Ducky.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Ann M. Martin owns the copyright and Scholastic owns Ann; Peter Lerangis wrote him, and I just love him way too much.
Notes: A thought experiment in sympathy with International Blog Against Racism Week. And yes, I will write the drabbles eventually. But now it's way past bedtime.
Summary: What if Ducky were black? or Ducky thinks about race.
Wordcount: 706
Reflections
on my reflection
You look in the mirror and you see someone who is:
-on the short side
-black
-male
-wearing jeans and a button-down plaid shirt, and sneakers.
So why bother looking in the mirror in the first place? It's not like you've changed since the last time you looked, not like you've grown any taller or whiter or more interesting. Maybe you could use a haircut, but that's not why Mr. Schafer looked at you like that when you drove Dawn home after school today.
You wonder what you look like from the outside, what Dawn sees, or Sunny, or Mr. Schafer. You're so used to knowing what it's like on the inside, how you manipulate your body through three dimensions and how you keep your head high and how you're so careful when you walk that you don't strut because God knows the Cro-Mags love a challenge and you don't flit because you KNOW what would happen if you did, and your stride, like your style, is nondescript preppy, and you know that the black kids think you're an Uncle Tom and that the white girls and Amelia think you're harmless, and maybe you are. You try to be.
But Mr. Schafer looked at you and that's not what he saw. He saw something that wasn't in you, but something in your skin, in your sex. You're the older black boy who drove his daughter home from school, and can you really blame him for the frostiness in his tone, the hesitation before his handshake? You felt, suddenly, desperate to impress upon him that you're safe.
That you're safe. That you've been a good friend for his daughter, that you won't take her to rap concerts, that you won't try to date her, that you won't -- you can't even write it, can't even think it, you would never. You're safe.
You'd like to think you're safe from racism, that Vista and by extension Palo City are, for all their problems, colorblind and racially harmonious. Yes, you grew up here; yes, you remember second grade, and you've seen what's written in the men's room but maybe those things are just aberrations; maybe it's just Cro-Mags being Cro-Mags and it's not symptomatic of anything, and it certainly doesn't have anything to do with you.
When Dawn and Sunny and Maggie practically refused to get in the car with you the night of the party, that wasn't because you were black; it was because you were an upperclassman, and male. (Not to mention it was after dark, and Sunny was drunk, and your car is, admittedly, not much to look at, let alone drive in.)
And if you believe that, Ducky, maybe you'll believe that when Jason -- sorry, Jay -- uses the n-word, it's because he LIKES you, because he UNDERSTANDS you, because he's JUST ONE OF THE GUYS, and not because he's a raging, racist asshole.
And if you believe THAT, you probably believe in Santa Claus and the Easter bunny and that your parents will come back from Ghana with plenty of presents and will stay in California for good this time.
Which reminds you of another thing, how upset you get when you tell people your parents are in Ghana and they get this look of understanding on their faces and go, "Oh, do you have family there?" or "So that's where you're from!" and don't really believe you when you explain that actually, you've never been to Africa and actually, your parents' work has nothing to do with where their great-great-grandparents were born. Then you feel guilty for feeling upset, and wonder if you're being defensive, or overly sensitive, if that's the identity you've been searching for: He Who Overthinks and Overreacts.
You think about the clothes you wear, the manner you adopt, the manic joking, the all-nighters, the shoulder to cry on, everything that you use to project the personality you wish you had, and you wonder if maybe all that work is, in fact, POINTLESS, if the first thing everyone sees will always be the color of your skin.