It used to confuse me, and hurt me, that black kids didn't want to be my friend. I now realize that I didn't really want to be their friend either, especially if they didn't act how I believed people of our race should act. Black kids not accepting who I was pushed me farther into relationships with white kids, who I later found didn't accept me either.

One day, a white boy in my third grade music class looked me in my face and told me that he would never date me because I was black. Oddly enough, that same boy tried to comfort and console me as I cried. That was the day I subconsciously decided that I wasn't going to be a typical black girl. That was the day I started to deny who I was. That was the day I wanted to forget that I was black; because in my opinion, you weren't going to make it to the top of the food chain being black.

All of my life, I've gone to predominantly white schools. From grade school, middle school, high school and now college, I have always been a part of the minority, and it has never bothered me — at least people didn't know it did. For years, I let people call me an "oreo": black on the outside, white on the inside. I let white people say things like "I'm blacker than you," or "Imani, you're not even black," and I never said a word to defend my skin. The truth is I embraced it. Embracing it meaning that I would even agree with them saying things like "You're right. I'm not black." I even went as far as to make my first Twitter name "_whitegurlswagg." I wanted to be who they were saying I was because I didn't want to be ostracized or isolated. I was always popular, and I was always in the "in crowd," and they seemingly welcomed me. I believe a lot of white people liked me. However, I believe a lot of black people didn't like me because I didn't meet their expectations of how a black person should act or speak. I own that. I am very conservative, speak eloquently and pride myself on being a classy person.

But I am in fact a black woman.

When I was in tenth grade, I sat in an AP history class full of white students. It was Black History Month, and my birthday was around the corner. My teacher was out of the classroom so of course everybody was acting up. I stood up and said that I loved the month of February, because it was the month of love, Black History Month, and my birthday. I sat there as white students shouted things like "Nobody cares about your birthday nor do we care about Black History Month." They continued to say things like "Black history doesn't matter," and "That's why it's the shortest month of the year!" They then proceeded to make black jokes, which hurt me to the core. I was the only black student in this class. Enraged and crying, I walked out. None of the people I considered friends ever said a word to defend me and some of them even laughed. Although my teacher reprimanded the entire class and left all of us in tears, I was still scarred. Although I got so many teary-eyed apologies and love from my peers afterwards, I wasn't the same person. That was the day I realized that it was time to start accepting that I was indeed black.

To the other black kids, teens, or young adults who fall into the "oreo" category, I feel you. I know how it feels to believe you don't identify with the people of your race. The truth is you're black. You are not white on the inside, and you never will be. It is OK that you are indeed an African American. Being an African American is nothing to be ashamed of. Even surrounded by people who look nothing like you, it is okay to acknowledge that your skin isn't like theirs. In lieu of all of the events surrounding police brutality and racial profiling, it is imperative that you recognize and accept who you are.

I know how you must be feeling, going through life like you don't belong to the white people nor do you belong to the black people. I know how it feels to be a young black girl and to have a young white male approach you with hopes and thoughts of romantic relationships. I know how it feels when those same boys ask you not to tell anybody because they don't want people to know. I know how it feels to have those same white boys say things like "I don't want to date you. I just want to make out with you because black girls are better kissers than white girls." I know how it feels to have to sit in a classroom with the white girlfriends of those same white boys and pretend that their boyfriends weren't texting you the night before.

I know how it feels to see black girls followed around a store and asked repeatedly, "Do you need help," while you, with your white friends, walk around that same store unbothered. I know how it feels to have your friends say things that bother you, but you believe you can't say anything because they'll look at you differently. I know how it feels to watch the news and to be outraged by what you see, but you believe you can't post anything because your friends won't agree. I know how it feels when you finally realize that even though 75 percent of your friends are white, that they can't protect you from racial profiling.

I never saw a need to speak up for who I was or what I thought wasn't right in this world because I was afraid. Today, I am ashamed that it took me so long to come to terms with who I am. I am so sorry to all of those who look like me that had to watch me not believe in our people and not believe in our history or our futures. I wish I could take back some of the time I wasted, but I can't.

I'm here to give you some advice. You can be black and have white friends. You can stand up for what you believe in and still maintain healthy relationships with those who don't agree with you. Don't put people into categories. Even if they do it to you, it isn't right. See people for who they are. See them with the eyes of God, and not the stereotypes of man. Love everyone. Even if they do things you wouldn't do yourself, you still have to love them. Don't be afraid of who you are. We need you to be exactly who God made you. Step out of the boxes people have put you in and step into the path God has put you on. Be you. Be sincere. Be a leader. Be black.