Pssst … I wannabe white

I began to weary and I became wary … of whitefellas, their games, their institutions. I studied them, labelled them, dissected them, shook my head at their paradoxes, their pronouncements and their practices. Most people of colour have endless opportunity to observe whiteness, given that most have to live in it. Whereas the opposite is not true for whitefellas.

Naively, I dodged, ducked and rode the waves of whiteness which were ever present, thinking that there would be reprieve around the corner. Meanwhile, whitefellas kept on keeping on, glibly gliding through life, their superiority never allowing them to look at the shadow side – or should that be shallow side – of their inferiority. Finally I balked. After endless years of aspiring, perspiring and desiring, I surrendered. The bereftness of whiteness had taken its toll on me. I’d played their game, with all its delusions and illusions. Despite being bright enough and light enough, I still was not right because ultimately, well, by now, it was pretty obvious … I was not white.

I’d tapped on the brittle outer shell of whiteness and just when I thought it would open up a new world, it clamped shut like a clam shell. The marginalised are forever boundary riders when it comes to whiteness, or so I found.

My intuitive recall was alive as ever. From puberty to maturity, from schooldays to workdays, I knew for sure that whiteness was about apartness. Like a sensual, but slimy suitor, it had sucked me in then spat me out.

So, having generally located myself in relation to Whiteness and what it has done both for me and to me, why do you reckon I wannabe White?

The answer is simple: to alleviate the pain of being the target of racism. I’ve tried everything else to shake off the racism which leaves scars on one’s soul. That racism which is about pigmentation and identification of you as ‘other’. That racism which has whitefellas in this country saying: ‘You’re imagining all of this, Lillian’. That white racism which says: ‘You’ve got a chip on your shoulder, your’re too sensitive, too paranoid’.

That racism which has the Hansonites say, ‘We’re all Australians and we need to be treated equally’.

That racism which whitefellas aren’t even aware of, let alone need to examine because of the privileges and power of whiteness which treats those on its lowest rung better than the most exalted of the ‘others’.

Yeah, I wannabe white … so that I don’t have to be acutely aware every day of my ‘otherness’ in the eyes of the dominant whites. So that I don’t have to be further insulted and assaulted on a regular basis by the smugness, the emptiness and well-meaningness of whiteness.

Yeah, for a change I’d like to be part of the powerful, part of the fold, part of the majority, which doesn’t necessarily have to examine itself. Sure, it would be strange and foreign, even if it were only for a day or two, but it would be a relief from the attitudinal stares and glares.

Oh to walk the terrain without pain!

But in order to do so, I’d need to get a nose job and have my skin turned white. Perhaps even dye my hair blonde. Then when people looked at me it would be because, well … I might be a blonde but at least I’m not a boong. But then people do notice blondes, too. So if I didn’t like them looking at me because I was a blonde, I could re-dye my hair and escape from the despair.

Wow, what a relief from racism! Wow, that’s what whiteness affords you. What a delight to be white, for a change. Wow, what a relief to be white and … well … you know … considered SO right and SO bright!