The Idea of an Essay, Volume 3

4 The Idea of an Essay: Volume 3 not have to be constantly reminded that I was different. It must have been the heat of the summer a few years later or the people I was around but I refused to let it slide anymore. My youth group was at church camp. There were five girls, maybe, and we were combined with a group of girls from Chicago Heights. They were the complete opposite of us. They were all black with one white girl and we were all white with me, the only black girl. I fit in perfectly with the other group. It was no different than being at home or with family and not once was my way of speech questioned or brought up by the Chicago girls. However, that could not be said about my youth group. We were all sitting in the little, square building we would call home for the next week. We were talking about anything and everything when the Chicago girls were joking about something and were talking in the slang that they would use back home. I was laughing at what was being said when somebody said, “Mojade, you should take some notes.” The room became very quiet and the only thing heard was the loud air conditioner that was trying to create some cool air. Instead of stopping the girl continued, “You know Mojo you are really white compared to them. In fact Angel,” the only white girl with the Chicago Heights group, “acts more black than you do.” A part of me wanted me to let it go but a larger part of me was not having it. I was hot, tired, and not at all interested in letting it slide. I remember just looking at her thinking about what I should even say or do. The room became small and everything got a slight red twinge to it. I could feel the anger growing inside and I knew I was about to snap like pillars under high pressure. However, I never got the chance because the Chicago girls came swooping in to save me. “That makes no sense.” That was all that Kiki needed to say to make the girl realize her mistake. It was followed by a look of judgment from everybody in the room. I know she was trying to get laughs, but instead she caused everybody to either finally understand that, those words should not be said or to stick up for me and make sure it was addressed immediately. I finally realized that when I left that square, overheated box in the woods I would not let it happen anymore. Just because I spoke like I was not raised in the ghetto did not mean I was not black; it just meant that I was not raised in the ghetto. And just because other people spoke like they were raised