This poem by Mississippi native Natasha Trethewey reminds me that my story isn’t the only story in the world. Trethewey, growing up the daughter of a black mother and white father was sometimes able to “pass” as white. Yet, she often found herself occupying a strange third world—neither black nor white— and this only added to the awkwardness of growing up. “White Lies” uses language cleverly (the pun of the title, the nod toward Ivory Soap’s “99.4% Pure” slogan, and the ambiguity at the end) to create something that hangs with me long after I’ve read it.
White Lies
The lies I could tell,
when I was growing up
light-bright, near-white,
high-yellow, red-boned
in a black place,
were just white lies.
I could easily tell the white folks
that we lived uptown,
not in that shanty-fied shotgun section
along the tracks. I could act
like my homemade dresses
came straight out the window
of Maison Blanche. I could even
keep quiet, quiet as kept,
like the time a white girl said
(squeezing my hand), Now
we have three of us in this class.
But I paid for it ever time
Mama found out.
She laid her hands on me,
then washed out my mouth
with Ivory soap. This
is to purify, she said,
to cleanse your lying tongue.
Believing her, I swallowed suds
thinking they’d work
from the inside out.
[from Domestic Work]
Written by Jamie
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