I push my hands into my coat pockets as I pace towards the ientrance. My hood is pulled up upon my head shadowing my visage. My Public Enemy medallion hangs around my neck, resting upon my windbreaker. My baggy jeans sag over the street hikers on my feet. I take an uneasy sigh and enter through the front door.

As soon as I open the door, my insides are thumped by the persistent bass forcing itself from the dance floor. I buy my ticket and head toward the dance. As I walk, I realize that it has already started. Some people in the corridor begin to glare at me out of the corners of their eyes. I just pull the brim of my hood low over my eyes and continue to walk, head down.

I walk into the dance and receive reassurance from the darkness. I loosen up a little but feel the glares stabbing at me. Just as I begin to mingle, it happens. Just what I thought would happen to me. An upperclassman stops me.

"What are you, a damn wanna-be?" he says.

I suddenly fall into an internal rage, and my white skin burns with red. Hundreds of thoughts flow through my mind. Just because I dress a certain way, does that make me a wanna-be? Is it wrong to dress in a way that is comfortable and familiar to an individual? I look around and see everybody wearing their little overalls, but I don't want to be another face in a valley of clones. I want to look the way I want, dress the way I want, talk the way I want, and listen to whatever music I want.

Just then I spot my boys. Ignoring my antagonist, I walk over to my friends.

"Yo G, don't even worry about those suckers," are the comforting words from one of my cronies, Jim.

As L.L. Cool J blares through the speakers, I am suddenly uplifted and begin to dance. I forget about everything and have a good time for the rest of the night. I guess I'm going to have to get used to just brushing off things like that, because this will be only one of many instances where someone doesn't accept me for who I am. n