Black.

This post is a little sensitive, but I try not to shy away from the obvious issues, because without some attention, they will never reach any semblance of a resolution.

I am a Black woman.  While I may be very fair, have light colored eyes, and not the kinkiest of hair – I am still Black.  I don’t like watermelon, I peel the skin off of my fried chicken, and I do not like Kool-Aid.  I am still Black.  Not because I have been called a nigger, not because many of my friends are black, not because I went to school in Detroit, at a predominantly black school.  I am black because, despite the many cultures in my bloodline, being a Black woman hits home for me.  Being black is what I am connected to.

But even that statement needs further clarifying, doesn’t it?  What exactly “hits home” for me?  Do I somehow feel connected to slavery, although to my knowledge, none of my family members were slaves? Do I feel oppressed by other cultures, especially whites?  Do I feel validated by the Civil Rights Movement, support the opportunities provided by Affirmative Action, celebrate holidays like Juneteenth and Kwanzaa?

The truth is, these kinds of questions, this need to assess why or how I identify with being Black only comes from other Black people.  This incessant evaluation, this need to connect through broken or manufactured traditions, this crippling, close-minded and oppressed view of being Black is encouraged by us: Blacks. To non-blacks, my connection to blackness is pretty non-negotiable. Honestly, I am over trying to define or enrich it, and I would love nothing more than to help each of us over it as well.

I have been called half white by other Blacks far more than I have been called “nigger” by non-Blacks.  I have encountered less inclusiveness, less welcoming greetings and more curiosity from Black people, than I have from any other race or culture. In the quest to define ourselves as Blacks, unfortunately, many of us get hung up on details only recognizable by ‘us.’

We can not begin to heal, to reclaim our cities, our leadership, our children or our families until we claim ourselves.  Until we understand that Black is not only brown skin and kinky hair.  Until we understand being Black does not have to mean you want to return to Africa.  Being Black does not mean that your great-grandparents had to be enslaved.  Being Black does not mean that you are impoverished. Being Black, just like being white, or being Latino, or a number of other races, can embrace diversity.  It can encompass a vast number of small differences, and even large differences without being hateful or isolating.  After all, none of us had any control over the history from which we sprang, be it rife with stories of slavery or Island poverty or South African tribalism.

Or not.

I personally feel like we need to stop searching for a tangible definition of Blackness against which to measure our own.  Stop creating reasons to isolate Blacks from Blackness, when truthfully, those of us who are Black, know it in our souls, even if we are without words for what that means.  Stop finding reasons to separate light skinned from dark, middle class from impoverished, and just ante up and unite to get somewhere – anywhere, together.

/rant.

Tagged as: Black, colorism, confidence