#interracial struggles

[mcrogerson]

Sooooo we makin' a lot of eye contact. You tryna get at me or are you just observing white people? What's sad is that this is a legitimate question.

[rhymeswithreason]

i am not my skin

I don't believe that my race defines me. Thus, as a writer, scholar, thinker, I tend to avoid focusing on subjects of race. I believe my work should be evaluated on its merit, and I don't want my race to taint the perception of my audience.

That being said, here is one of my few pieces on race.

I am a Black American. I'm not an African American because even though my ancestors are from Africa, there's no written record of this. As far back as my family can be traced, I am the descendent of former slaves of Southern plantations.

While I am a Black American, I also have skin that is lighter than what might be considered typical. At least in my family, I have the lightest skin complexion and don't necessarily "fit in." Both of my parents are black, and I am not significantly mixed with any other race.

It took a long time for me to admit this, but I have finally worked up to saying this out loud:

I was ashamed of my skin color.

I don't think I can yet claim to be released of my shame in this regard, but I am getting there. Maybe sharing my shame story with more people will make releasing it more possible.

As a child, I was made fun of for having lighter skin than many of my black peers. I was called names and was treated in a way, by peers and adults alike, that made me want to change the way I looked. 

I was called "house slave" and ridiculed for "digging deep in my gene pool because you just couldn't be satisfied with my mother's pretty (darker) coloring." -- one of my "friend's" moms said that last one.

I was rejected by my black peers and of course, not actually being white or hispanic, didn't fit in to any other race group. I felt like an outcast. All I wanted was to be darker. I tried to stay out in the sun longer in the summer so I'd get a more profound tan, but even still, I never got the effects I wanted.

As I got older and met more people, I realized that being a black girl with light skin wasn't the most uncommon thing in the world. I met more people like me and didn't feel quite so bad.

But when I had my first boyfriend, feelings of shame began to creep up again. He told me that he "didn't date black girls" but that I was an exception because of my light skin. This guy was Haitian. 

My second boyfriend was Italian. He also told me that he typically "wasn't into black girls" but that he liked me. He also thought we "looked better together" because the difference in our skin tones wasn't so profound. His parents were nice to me at first, but after ten months of us dating, I learned they had been trying to get him to break up with me the whole time. They didn't think he should be dating a black girl, regardless of how much they might have liked me as a person. Though he fought them for awhile, he had some racist thoughts of his own. He told me that "no one actually wants mixed race children" but that he'd settle for them since he loved me. 

I didn't notice it then, but over the course of my relationship with the Italian guy, I started to feel inferior. I didn't believe that he really was attracted to me, and to be honest, I still don't believe he was. I didn't wish I looked any specific way, but I wanted to look different. 

I wanted someone to love me for me. I didn't want my skin tone to play any part in the decisions of the guys I dated.

My most recent boyfriend was Swedish and Puerto Rican, but he had blonde hair and green eyes. With him, for the first time, I knew I was loved for who I was and my skin color didn't matter at all. At first, I would get angry if he ever mentioned our race differences; I just wanted to be a person. But he showed me it was okay to celebrate our differences and to celebrate who we are.

The first time I ever told this whole story to someone was a few weeks ago. I told the story during my TrueYou experience. I've posted a bit about Flight, but this is a story I shared in Climb, the workshop a month before. I told this story and my facilitator asked me how I felt about it.

"Like an outcast. Like I don't belong anywhere. Inferior."

He thought for a moment and then asked, "Are you ashamed of your skin color?"

Tears welled in my eyes. "Yes," I whispered.

Shame is the internal feeling of not thinking oneself good enough but can also manifest with the internal question of, "Who do you think you are?"

I thought I knew who I was; I did know who I was and that was the worst part. There was no escaping it. But I didn't feel good enough. Not good enough to be black, not good enough to be white. Awkwardly in between, but truthfully, not in between. That would have been easier. I would be classified then.

By some cruel twist of nature, I believed myself physically not good enough to belong. If I got too close to groups of different races, the voice in my head would accuse, "Who do you think you are?" 

Like many things I've acknowledged, releasing myself of this shame is still a process, but I am going to continue to choose me. I am going to start believing that I am beautiful just the way I am. I am going to start believing that I deserve the love of any man who gives it, regardless of his skin color, hair color, eye color, or race. The prize is in receiving the love, not in the appearance of who it comes from.

My race doesn't define me, neither does my skin color, and damn sure not my shame. I will not shrink like I've seen so many other black girls with light skin do. I will not put myself down and elevate dark skin. But I also do not think myself superior because of it. I will elevate people for who they are. I will elevate beauty for what it is, all shades of it, all equal in spite of its differences.

I am who I am because of who I choose to be and who I believe that I am. 

"I am not my skin."