Rosalind Wiseman

As far back as I can remember there was always something that made me stand out.

Me, age 11. 5'2" and 90 lbs of greatness.

From kindergarten to sixth grade it was my height and weight: I was taller (and skinnier) than all of the boys and most of the girls throughout elementary school. In class pictures from those years, I stand awkwardly on the back row of the bleachers in the gym; my pink, frilly dresses an anomaly next to the clip-on ties and black suit jackets worn by the boys who flank me on either side. They called me Olive Oil, after the super-thin character from the Popeye’s cartoon, and I endured endless taunts including the dreaded “You’re so skinny you could hula-hoop with a cheerio!”

In middle school it was my boobs. I was what one might call an early bloomer: by the end of sixth grade, I was wearing a full B-cup and by the summer before eighth grade I was spilling out of a C. Boys stared, pointed, and giggled. Girls made assumptions about what I had, and hadn’t already done. And I didn’t know what to do with them.

By the time I reached high school, I thought I was finally over it all. The other girls began to fill out, so my breasts weren’t so impressive anymore. I stopped growing, and the boys hit growth spurt after growth spurt, so I wasn’t “too tall” anymore. And in high school, being skinny was a good thing. But instead of high school being a place where I finally wasn’t so out-of-place, my peers found something brand new that was “wrong” with me. Apparently, I “talk like a white girl.”

As a dark-skinned, African-American girl from the city, I guess I was supposed to sound a certain way. Whatever “typical” black speech pattern, diction, or pronunciation everyone expected from me, I didn’t deliver.

The burden of this societal expectation would follow me through college. Guys I met at bars or frat parties asked me where I was from and whether I went to a private high school. They were always overtly surprised to learn I’d grown up in the inner city and was a product of public education. Societal judgments were written all over their faces: Black girls from the hood weren’t supposed to sound like me. Black girls from where I’m from don’t normally speak so well.

My speech surprised people. My speech made me stand out. And as ridiculous as it may seem, my speech forced people to reconsider their understanding of the “Black” box, because I just didn’t fit.

But don’t think this issue is just black and white.

Growing up outside the box happens a lot more often than you might think. Any kid who is a little different–who isn’t athletic enough, popular enough, or eventually, sexy enough; who doesn’t have the right clothes, the right hair cut, or who isn’t into the right music–has, at some point, been made to feel alienated or uncomfortable because they deviate from what’s typical. And any attack on those essential parts of who someone is, whether it’s the way they speak, their hobbies or tastes, or even the people they choose to love, can be more hurtful and harmful than other forms of teasing. Forcing someone to question who they are and whether they should be different based on societal stereotypes or norms can have far reaching consequences.

Friends since 1998 and still going strong.

In Rosalind’s Owning Up Curriculum, she emphasizes three things you need to successfully navigate the pressures of “Girl World”: One adult ally you can go to for advice, one friend, and one thing you’re good at. I think my ability to come through school (mostly) unscathed was because I found, and embraced, those three things. My mother was my adult ally. I talked to her every night after school about what had happened that day and took the advice she gave me when it came to situations I couldn’t handle on my own. I was lucky enough to have two real friends: Girls who supported me unconditionally and who would never dream of asking me to change. I met them in seventh grade and even now, more than a decade later, they remain the best friends a girl could ever ask for. And I found that writing was something I was very good at. I wrote poetry and stories, and I read constantly. I surrounded myself with words and it really helped me focus on the positive and block out all the negative.

But perhaps the most important step I took as I was growing up outside the box was my own personal decision to be okay with who I was. While outside support from my family members and my friends definitely helped me make it through school, self-acceptance is something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Once I decided that I knew who I was and, more importantly, that I loved who I was, I quickly overcame the pressure I felt to be like everyone else.

And finally, after years of standing out, I’ve started to like it.