Two hours before sunrise and I am sitting in my bed pondering over the use of the word black. “Black coffee.” “Black tea.” “Black people.” First of all, black coffee isn’t even black, it’s dark brown. Black tea isn’t black, it’s deep red. And black people are a range of reds, yellows and browns.
And then I started thinking about how I relate as a “black woman”, and discovered that I don’t relate at all. I consider myself African American, while acknowledging that I am mixed with Puerto Rican, Native American, and European ancestry, but I don’t relate to any of them. I am just an American woman who was always plagued with the dread questions, “What are you?” and “Where are you from?”
I’ve come to resent these questions. I’m tired of answering them, and I’m tired of the responses I get after I have answered them, especially from other African Americans. “You don’t look black.” “No, sweetie, you’re not black.” It makes me feel like I don’t belong, like I’m not welcome to identify myself as something because I don’t look the part.
Well, I am what I am, and I know who I am. And I'm not sorry I don't meet your criteria.
