“You don’t understand what its like to be black. You’re light-skinned.”
This was one of the most hurtful insults I have ever received. The worst part, is that it was from another black person. I hated that I had to defend my blackness just because I was a fairer complexion. Why do I even need to prove how black I am?
My blackness has been a topic of discussion for most of my life. I grew up in what was considered “the hood” but went to a predominately white private school. This meant that I was never black enough for my black friends, but I was the entire black experience for my white friends. I mean all I had to do was throw the occasional heavily exaggerated “Giiiiiirrrrl” into any conversation. I will never forget when one of by box braids fell out during recess. Trying to explain that I wasn’t loosing my hair was exhausting.
It always seemed that being African American was never good enough. I attended an HBCU for one year during college and the number one question I got was, “ Where are you from? I would kindly reply, “California!”
“Nooo, Originally.”
“Yea, California”
“Well, Where are your parents from?”
“California and Texas.”
“Nooooo, Origianllly.”
I just didn’t get it. Why did I have to be from somewhere other than where I am from? Because I am light skinned, I just had to be mixed. I later realized it was more than that. This was my first encounter with black people from all over the world. Jamaica. Haiti. Trinidad. New York, by way of one of the aforementioned. They were asking me so that they could connect culturally, but found themselves disappointed. Why is it that being African American was not good enough. Even though I was there with so many other beautiful black people from all over the world, I still felt alone.
When I was in junior high my god-father, Dr. Boyce Dulan, would hold summer sessions at my church to teach the youth about our history. I remember sitting in the church library so mad that my mom was making me attend. I had no other plans, but it was summer break and I was missing Ricki Lake! He would put posters on the wall of our black history heroes, past and present, to make sure we knew who they were. Mae Jemison. George Washington Carver. Charles Drew. Oprah Winfrey. Madame C.J. Walker. He had us read Gifted Hands, the story of Ben Carson, who overcame great odds to become a world renowned neurosurgeon, best known, at the time, for successfully separating conjoined twins. Dr. Dulan wanted us to know that we came from greatness and are capable of the same.
I am ever so grateful for my godparents for reinforcing the pride of being an African American women. To this day their home is decorated in animal prints and art pieces that remind us of our roots. I carry this pride with me every where I go. From being apart of the Black Student Union in college, to collaborating on an Open Mic so that we had a place to express ourselves, to posting unknown facts on IG during black history month, so that those who follow me are aware of the great things accomplished by my culture.
I’m not gonna lie, there were moments when I felt like I didn’t have a culture, because I don’t have a flag, or a cultural outfit, or a “home” to visit. When you experience so much appropriation and at the same time aren’t always accepted by your own people, it can be depressing. But I have to remember that I come from a resilient people. I find strength in the example of my parents and grandparents, who had to navigate through the south and created the best life they could for me and my sisters. I find strength in my ancestors, though I don’t know their entire story, I know they were survivors and loved God. I find strength in my friends, who have excelled professionally and overcome stereotypes daily. I find strength in me, through my own trials and hardships, I know that God created me for more and will guide me accordingly.
So even if I am a little brighter than those around me… Oh please believe….
I’m Lightly Melanated, but Hella Black.
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