Would I rather?

“If you had the chance to be white, would you take it?”

It was a question posed late at night — at that ungodly hour when people are free to think wild thoughts.

My first thought was yes. Yes, of course. I considered the sight of my roommate, her own smooth skin several shades darker than my own. I watched her brush her hair and wondered, “Haven’t we already decided?” She’d worn a weave since I’d met her, and the long brown locks attached to her scalp were no more hers than the hundreds of meticulous braids attached to mine. In this physical regard, we had already conformed to a European standard of beauty. How else had I already made my choice? I already raise my voice three octaves to mask the characteristic gritty speech of where I’m from. I already force myself to smile when I’ve got my hands in the pockets of my sweats, proving to the skittish Trojans on Figueroa that I’m not a threat.

Choosing to be white would mean choosing to become my polar opposite; let’s face it, white women and black women occupy two very separate ends of the American totem pole. I could become the standard of beauty to which others aspire. I could be viewed as a companion instead of a conquest. I’d escape the confines of a thousand societal assumptions — that I’m a criminal, that I’m uneducated, that I’m merely another strain on a system already stretched too thin. I could become white and forget about how tricky life would be if I weren’t.

Yet I didn’t say yes. Why? Because beneath the layers of my dark skin, I’m an incurable rebel.

“I don’t want to be white,” I finally answered, and that’s the truth of it.

An inspirational quote from political activist Angela Davis hangs over my desk: “I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change; I am changing the things I cannot accept.” I cannot change myself, and no question posed in the dark of night will ever give me the chance to do so. But what I can do — what I will do — is forever endeavor to change the world around me. Relinquishing my beloved identity will never even be a thought.

Remaya Campbell is a freshman majoring in film and television production, and NGOs and social change. Her column, “Color Lines,” runs Wednesdays.