Fitting In

Upon looking up the word or phrase fitting in, I learned that fitting in means to be socially compatible with other members of a group and similarly to find room or have sufficient space for someone or something. It seems by that definition everyone else had a box that they could check, whether it was yes I’m socially compatible or yes there is room for me. But there was a moment I felt that everyone had that box but me. I even felt as though I couldn’t even turn to my race, my skin color for a box that allowed me to fit in by that definition. I mean how simple would have been just to use my race and say there it is, I’m compatible, but yet I couldn’t even do that. It was drilled in me that black doesn’t crack, it was supposed to be beautiful, confident and resilient. Even that definition didn’t allow me a box I could check. I’m already failing the black girl magic test and all I have done so far it just walk into the room. I entered every room and immediately get an overwhelming sensation that I don’t belong, that this place was not meant for me. I felt as if I had stumbled on it by accident and had gotten lucky enough that someone let me through the door. No one could be looking at me, but I just knew they were staring and saying amongst themselves “why is she here, does she not know that the world wasn’t designed for her?” Where is my fairy godmother in that moment to wave a wand and sprinkle some magic dust on me to make a Cinderella moment happen. My godmother is no where to be found, so it ‘s just me and my thoughts, and a feeling of a thousand blind eyes judging me, and they don’t like what they see. It’s just me walking into the room with my things rubbing together creating friction and doubt, my breasts bouncing as if they are trying to escape from the bondage of my bra, and people pay a fortune to make these things bigger, they must enjoy back pain. To add to all of that is the stomping sounds that the weight of my feet make. I might as well as me the elephant in the room, I’m something that you don’t want to look at but you cant help but notice. I’m unpleasantly loud and for God’s sakes who wants an elephant in their room. There is no place for an elephant but aside and out of the way when it comes to human social interactions, and elephant would not be popular in that context. One moment can define you, and mine came like most did in high school, where fitting in is a fairy tale. I was a cheerleader in high school, not a popular one, but one none the less. If you ever thought that there was no such thing as an unpopular cheerleader, well here I am to debunk that myth. I put those two words together like an oxymoron, unpopular and cheerleader contradictory in every way, proven by every teenage and high school movie ever made. Cheerleaders were always many things, mean, cruel, selfish, harsh, vindictive, but never unpopular. I was the only black cheerleader between both the varsity and junior varsity squad. So who was I going to relate to, and who was going to relate to me. I stood at 5’6”, 150 lbs, size 10 shoes, size XL uniform, and daughter of a janitor and cafeteria worker, none of which I ever felt excluded me from anything. But in this squad I was the tallest, the thickest, the blackest, and the poorest member on the squad. I didn’t look like them, I didn’t have the same life experiences as them, and my hair was definitely not like them. I can think of many significant moments from being on that squad that made me feel out of place, moment where it seemed like the timeline had gotten discombobulated and somehow the Phyllis that was me became the cheerleader that another Phyllis somewhere else was supposed to be. Maybe I was never supposed to be here, and there were many moments that made me believe that was a fact, but none as significantly defining as the uncomfortable issue of my hair. I know its just hair, and its not a vital organ like a heart or your lungs, but if there is a challenge placed on your hair it becomes very vital then. Even Rapunzel had a harder time being saved from the tower without her hair, and even men go through extreme measures, physically and financially when they start losing their hair, so don’t be so quick to dismiss the importance of hair, especially when you as a black girl hear nine white girls say “we can’t do that in our routine because of Phyllis’ hair.” What was that? Was that empathy? Were they expressing understanding of my hair being different and therefore had different limitations from their own hair. Did they even know enough about my hair to being using empathy. I mean this was 1999, if black hair was ever popular, it was surely not popular then. Did they know that I didn’t have to wash my hair every day, that I had to grease my scalp, that getting my scalp scratched was a connecting tradition. My thighs didn’t fit in, my shoe size didn’t fit, my weight didn’t fit in, and now my hair didn’t either. Maybe they meant to be empathetic but the words were said in a way that conveyed privilege and frustration. Apparently they wanted to do a part in the dance routine where we would take our hair out of the high top ponytail it was in and bend over flipping our hair and then we would stand up and toss our hair over our shoulders in a sassy and sexy way. My hair would do none of those movements, so here I was signaled out, being reminded again that I was different and probably should not have been on the squad in the first place. Thinking about it now it seems silly and mundane, we probably would have looked more stupid than sexy doing that in the routine, but at that time it was a pivotal moment for a bunch of girls to project their sexuality. Hindsight always wins, if they knew what they know now they would have thanked my hair for preventing them from doing something silly, and if I felt the way about my hair as I do now I would have unapologetically laughed in their faces about how upset they were feeling about a ridiculous routine. I have grown in confidence about my hair and my size, and in some ways I do have to give society part of the credit because society has grown in defining beauty by more than one standard.