I once was a black girl. Culturally, spiritually, politically, most definitely economically, I was African in America, a sistah, and a sister, too. As black as fried chicken and watermelon - and Jack and Jill. As black as a soul clap in a dark nightclub - and a Sunday morning praise song. As black as SNCC, the Panthers, campus BSUs, and PE - as black as SCLC, CORE and the NAACP. I mean Obama black. I was black as food stamps - and a Black Man’s Whip. (Ya’ll know that’s a BMW, right?)
When anyone asked, “What are you?” I didn’t mind. I laughed and told them, “I am a black girl.” When they persisted and asked, “No, where are you from?” I’d laugh again and say, “The East Coast, baby!” If they gave me a look, I’d smile and tell them this:
"I’m part Bermudian, Bajan, Jamaican, English, French, German, Scotch-Irish, Native American and, obviously I’m African. But of course we don’t know from where. Some people have mad loot. I have mad DNA." Depending on the asker, I would add, "But really I’m just a light-skinned black girl."
And I was. Really, I was. As black as can be, and free to be me. I once was a real black girl. Until a few months ago…