I am a black woman.
These are things people like to hear. These words strung together in meaningless sentences make people pause, think for that extra half second, connect, withdraw . . . react. In a world hell bent on equality and ostensibly fighting for it in every way imaginable, these sentences have never held more weight in my life so far than it does now.
I am not a human.
As a child I was told by my mother that I was a human and so I believed it; only to find out when I got older that I was crazy for believing such imaginary tales. And I know this because I’ve been laughed at for referring to myself as a human. Quite literally laughed at in my face. Perhaps I don’t know what the word ‘human’ means. After all it is just a word – it could mean anything. These days we’ve decided that this particular word, ‘human’, is meaningless and now that I’ve gotten the memo (and I damn well better had) I thought I would just be nothing instead. That meant that since there was no acceptable word to describe what I am and I was never interested in the skin color game, I’ll just find something else to do and something else to talk about. Problem solved.
Little did I know I was crazy for believing such imaginary tales.
There is this dance I’m trapped in, like a bad cha-cha ring I can’t escape. Everyone is hudling along laughing and cheering while I’m just caught up in the momentum – and I’m not having much fun at all. For years I thought “Please, just leave me alone” every time I talked to someone who wanted to stamp ‘black woman’ on my entire character and every time I read something that wanted to remind me what I was supposed to believe.
And every time I try to escape, someone grabs my hips and drags me into the bad two step dance move with a swift “you know.” You know how it is. You know what I’m talking about. You know. As if it’s an automatic free download into the psyche of any black person not born a human. You know. That swing people put on it that makes two small words sound like four. You know. The words and implications of the words that nudge my side with a teasing elbow. You know.
I never do know. Instead I just float back in, a desperate creature of habit only to realize seconds later that my legs are moving but my mind is somewhere else escaping the ugly reality of labels and expectations. Everyone has already told me what I know and I guess there was no way to dispute it because it sounds so sure. And so I danced.
This worked for a while, until now of course. You see, if my legs are busy dancing, then I can’t use them for something else. I can only wish that I were somewhere else, but now wishing is simply not enough. I’m at a crossroads now. My feet hurt and my hips are tight. The moves are more complicated and it’s getting harder to blend in unnoticed. I’m getting short of breath. I’m wilting away and getting older by the second. I need a break. I want fresh air.
I became more suffocated by the skin color game when I met and eventually married Anon. My mother told me she didn’t care if my spouse was “polka dot with pinstripes,” my primary goal should be to find someone I love, who loves me back and is good for me. I believed her and did just that. Now it so happens that his skin is a different color than mine and it’s difficult navigating a relationship with different skin colors because somehow on our quest to be human we’ve become even more different. So much so that if you tell colleagues that you prefer to be labeled as a human confused eyes and laughter soon follow.
It’s a joke. To be human, you MUST be kidding. Why, you’re black of course, human isn’t good enough. Your husband is white and your children will be black also because telling them that they are both is just silly.
Now why it’s silly is the most baffling part. The whole ‘human’ thing is not silly because it’s false, it’s silly because no matter how hard you try to be human, everyone else will label you just the same . . . you know how it is. So why not just get in line and dance?
It’s strange that labeling oneself a human is a concept that is impossible for someone to fathom. How it’s justified is frightening.
This dance has gotten old and I’ve recently decided not to play the skin color game any more. It’s a very simple concept to me; in my walking life it looks like me talking about other things – things that have absolutely nothing to do with my skin color. And I know that everyone else is playing it but I don’t want to play anymore and I really should go and do something else with my time.
I only regret failing to opt out sooner.
And with that I ask, why should I play anyways?
What does giving up that game really mean for me, my life, and my family?
I’ve hated two people more than I’ve ever hated two people in my entire life; one was a white female and one was a black male. I hated them both for the same reason.
I’ve been closer with two people than any two people in the entire world; one is a white male and the other is a black female. I am close with them for the same reasons.
It seems to me the people I’ve hated and the people I am close with have more in common with each other than their appearances imply.
I have a friend from a different country I met two years ago who is like a sister to me; recent enough to feel like fate.
I was abandoned by a my own father after 16 years; when I was old enough to really know what it means to be burned.
It seems to me the family I was born with and the family I found influenced me in ways different than their origins and time served would make one assume.
I’ve heard different colored strangers yell racial slurs at me because of how I look on the outside and same colored brethren isolate and mock me because of how I act on the inside.
I’ve been admired and praised for my difference when different and and embraced and loved for my sameness when I’m the same.
It seems to me I’ve been judged on both sides of the coin, no matter the outcome or the perpetrator.
I’ve had friends and enemies from different backgrounds, cultures, countries and with different skin colors; my own child is only a small representation of the melting pot that is my relationships.
Imagine that if I regarded every person I’ve ever met as a colorless human, my experiences wouldn’t magically rearrange themselves to mean something different. So far in my life the only thing that separates one person from another is his or her heart.
The skin color game is growing, it’s so easy to get in, but the stakes are high. If we’re not careful, limited life experiences and narrow mindedness can creep in and crowd our identities with temporary and superficial descriptors that only scratch the surface on who we really are. It’s unforgiving and suffocating. No to mention in the skin color game everyone must pick a side.
. . . and I’m really bad at making up my mind.