The first time I felt I wasn't black was in the back of my third-grade classroom when my white friend tapped on my shoulder and asked me what I was "mixed" with. Not understanding what she meant, I quizzically perused my mother for an answer that evening. I don't remember what my mom said, though I know she must've laughed and told me I was black and that was that. But it stuck. I would look in the mirror at my pale skin and freckles and wonder. My hair was nappy, I knew that, but did that make me black enough?
The second time I felt I wasn't black was in middle school where in my class of approximately 100 students, only 13 were black kids. I had classes with two. They would talk to me during class, but by lunchtime, I was excluded when they wanted to sit with the other black kids I didn't know. They all lived in the same neighborhood, so they hung with each other outside of school. It wasn't a nice neighborhood, and it was cheap to live there. They told me I was from a "white" neighborhood, which was stupid in my mind because my next door neighbor was a black family. Nonetheless, I wasn't like them, so no one wanted to hang around me. I just wasn't black enough.
The third time I felt I wasn't black was in middle school again, when my eighth grade teachers praised me on how well I spoke. One teacher actually said to me, "You speak very well, better than most of the kids like you here." Even though she'd inadvertently pointed out the fact that I was black, it made me feel like I couldn't be, because I have heard it from my peers too. "You talk like a white girl." How many times had I heard that as a kid? So I would deepen my voice and try to take the lilt out when I talked to my "hood" friends. And then they'd make fun of me for that. I didn't sound black enough.
The fourth time I felt I wasn't black was when I got to college. I hung around the first month, I went to house parties and the Black Student Union meetings and participated in events. I met really amazing girls from all over the country with different perspectives on life. But I was uncomfortable.
When I went to parties, I knew none of the dances. We didn't swag-surf at my rural-county middle school. I listened to rap but not trap music, so I knew none of the lyrics to songs. At BSU meetings, I would socialize a little, but when it came time to talk issues, I never had anything to say because I had never faced the adversity many of the members had. I didn't feel black enough, because I felt I hadn't had the "real" black experience.
So where is my melanin?
Where did everyone get their copy of "How To Be Black 101?" Where was I when everyone got inducted into the "Hall of Being Universally Accepted as Black?"
Where is my melanin?
The answer is — it was never left. I am a black woman. No matter my dialect, origin of birth, flat butt or light skin color. There are days when I'm in a room full of black people and I feel so empowered and so loved that I wonder how I ever felt disconnected. And nothing, not even the ignorance of a nation raised on stereotypes, will take that away from me. I am black. Even if the world can't see that.
