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Exposing My Oreo Soul

By Nate Delesline III
Black College Wire

Nate Delesline III

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a little blackness now and then, but lately I seem to be losing my affinity for it. Perhaps this trait is a direct result of spending many of my younger years in the mostly lily-white cities of Pueblo, Colo., and Seattle, hardly the places to be if you feel the need to be totally thugged out.

I have occasionally been accused of being a white boy masquerading as a black man because of my love for things that don't quite fit into the stereotypical negro niche. This includes my love of rock music and distaste for sports and bling-bling of any type, especially small, often dilapidated cars with too many gaudy ground effects such as oversized rear spoilers and loud colors.

I take no offense at those remarks. I have no reason to dispute their claims, for they are all true. More important to me is that I enjoy my friends, my music and myself. Because my skin is dark and my hair is nappy does not mean I will acquiesce to the trends of pop culture that lead many people—black, white and every other ethnicity under the sun to believe they must strive to be something they really aren't.

Several years ago, while working at one of the McDonald's restaurants in Dover, Del., I found I was an anomaly among my colored co-workers. I was truly at a loss for how to interact with my brothers. I just could not seem to enjoy the 50 Cent remix CDs they played in the kitchen, and I still don't know why the Cowboys are to be avoided and the Eagles embraced, or why football was worth arguing about at all. I knew only one "thug-like" phrase to initiate a conversation: "Are you keeping it real?" Their responses were often colorful and varied—and keep it real I did.

I'll admit that initially I was terrified of these thug types—most of them towered over my 5'10" frame—but they eventually grew to enjoy my company as we slaved over the hot grills and fryers and splattered special sauce on the floor. I even had the pleasure of introducing some of the young bucks to the musical mastery of Marvin Gaye, and we spent many nights scrubbing the floor to his passionate pleadings for love and understanding.

I have no problems with hip-hop culture. I recognize the profound impact it continues to have on the United States and the world. But the bling-bling, commercial lifestyle is not for me. You may leave your Timberlands and oversized white T-shirts on. I respect the achievements of those black entertainers and athletes who work hard, perfect their art and stay on the straight and narrow. At the same time, I hope you can respect my desire to leave my vehicle looking as plain as possible. And I'm enjoying my Dockers and Levis, thank you very much.

I hope you don't hate me now that I've told you how I feel. Perhaps I'm out of touch—or even a little out of line—but on the rare occasions I visit the Dover Mall, no one really seems genuine.

I can see it right now—the extra thick girls squeezed into tight clothes trying to be cute, the 14-year-old wigger kids with their fake gold medallions and imitation thug wear; the 40-something Sears associate with the comb-over. Everyone always wants to be something he or she is not; I know I'm guilty as well. Maybe I've just spent too much time with all of my Caucasian cohorts, but I doubt a healthy dose of blackness will remedy the problem. I hardly consider myself a rebel, nor do I attempt to make a statement through my actions.

But if you've taken the opportunity to mull over my musings on life, I hope you've found yourself happy with you—how you spend your time, entertain yourself, who you hang with and whatever else you do. I don't know if you hate me or not, but I hope you take the opportunity to search your soul and figure out what you need to do to keep it real.

Nate Delesline II, a student at Delaware State University, originally wrote this for the Hornet. Have a comment? Send to [email protected]

Posted Nov. 7, 2006