Wrapping up the day’s math lesson, I asked the class if there were any questions. “Yeah, Mr. Frank,” said a boy I’ll call Jeremy. “For real, why you always talk like the white people?” As the class of third-graders roared with laughter, I was not sure who looked more uncomfortable—the visitors from the Boys and Girls Club’s administrative office, or my co-leader, who began adjusting the bookshelf to pretend like he had not heard the comment. I was both red-hot at the disrespect and annoyed that my feelings had been hurt by a third-grader.

This was not the first time my “blackness” had been called into question. The few blacks that lived in my predominantly white town ridiculed me for not being “hood” enough. This was particularly ridiculous considering that many of them lived in my suburban neighborhood. As the son of educators, I was required to speak “standard” English at home. Somehow, my diction, along with my love of polo shirts and the Beatles, meant that I did not deserve my black card.

Despite not sounding “black enough” to my African American peers, I was constantly reminded of my color when around my white peers. Whenever issues of race arose, I was the resident expert on the black community. I dreaded the time between MLK Day and Black History Month, for it usually involved an incredible number of awkward questions about “the black experience.” I somehow managed to be too black for my white friends while simultaneously being too white for my black friends.

My teen years were a depressing carousel of self-reinvention. Each time I tried to change who I was, I came back to where I’d started even more frustrated and confused. I begged my parents to buy me new clothes so I could match my peers. I watched hours of YouTube videos in an effort to sound less proper. I was willing to do virtually anything to feel a sense of belonging. As I failed over and over again, I closed myself off to friends and family.

It was not until college, where I met people who’d gone through similar experiences, that I began to see the folly in striving to fit a cookie-cutter identity. It was liberating not to feel the need to assimilate. I grew comfortable in my own skin.

I volunteered with the Boys and Girls Club’s Youth for Unity program because I wanted to help other kids find self-acceptance. When Jeremy asked his question, I firmly reminded everyone what was and was not appropriate for the classroom. Then I relaxed. “Don’t let anyone tell you being a certain color means you’ve gotta act a certain way,” I said. “Ever.” I hope they took that advice to heart. I know I did.