One Family in Black and White
A Conversation about Race, Identity and the Ties that Bind Us
For years, I have written about my struggle to find my identity and my place in a world that often sees things in black and white. I live somewhere in the in-between, born to a different father than my siblings and with different skin. That difference has led me on a lifelong journey where I walk a racial tightrope. I understand the pain my family feels living in a country where racism still exists. But because of my skin, I have white privilege they are denied.
But I am not the only face of diversity within my family. Over the years, my siblings’ relationships and marriages have created a generation of children and grandchildren whose skin tones range from toffee brown to pale milk. Each of them understands and embraces their black heritage, but they understand there are not only differences in how the world perceives them, but variations in how they see the world.
In recent weeks, they have expressed their feelings and thoughts to me on what it means to be Black in America, especially now during a time when our country is having a racial reckoning. Some of their opinions are shaped by where they live, by their age, and yes, even by how the world sees them.
On this Juneteenth, a celebration of the African-American experience, I have invited them to share some of their views. It’s a way of demonstrating how, even within one family, there are important and necessary conversations to be had about the things that separate us and the ties that bind us.
We were raised in a rural white community. But I have lived in Baltimore City for the past 35 years. When I first moved here, it was a cultural shock because I’d never been around this many black folks my entire life. It took a while for me to get used to it. Being in Baltimore, I do feel more comfortable in my skin. But I have been subjected to discrimination and racial profiling in the high-end department stores. Once I was looking at a watch and the clerk, a white woman, said, “I don’t think you can afford that watch. Let me show you something less expensive.” The watch was only $750.00. I got pissed and walked out of the store. The next day, I went back looking for that woman. I came straight from work and was dressed in a suit and tie. I asked her if she remembered me and she said no. So I reminded her I was the same black man who she approached the day before. Then I went to another clerk — someone younger and hip and said — I want that watch so let’s get going before I do or say something and cause a scene in here.
Both my daughter and granddaughter are mixed race. I’ve instilled in my daughter that nothing can hold her back. Whether or not she’ll see a level playing field in her lifetime, I don’t know. My granddaughter is only 13 and I hope as she gets to be my age, discrimination will be a thing of the past.
Despite the fact we come from different generations, my Dad and I agree on this: the Black Lives Matter movement is just the start. It’s going to take a lot more than a protest and a march to change a lifelong system that was made to suppress black people. What’s different now, compared to when he grew up is that social media can show that racism still exists even though people wanted to turn a blind eye for so long because they didn’t see it first-hand. And we need to deal with it in our own community. My entire life, some Black people have constantly reminded me that I’m not “really black”. They automatically think that I believe I’m better than them because I’m light-skinned. People assume that just because you are lighter than them that your life is/was easier than theirs. Over the years I’ve learned that people will try to bring you down because of something they don’t like about themselves and you can’t let that affect you.
As a kid, I remember going to a sleepover with nearby friends and walking home early in the morning after I woke up. Not four houses from my own I was stopped by an officer, asking for my identification. There was also a time when we were playing outside and a neighbor shot two of my friends (one was white, one was black) with a pellet gun. The parents of the white child called the police. When they arrived they started questioning my black friend assuming he was responsible. I don’t know if the neighbor was ever questioned or arrested. Now, I’m followed around stores every once in a while. If it happens I usually try to frequent it a few more times in the coming weeks so they learn my face.
Buffalo is an old city, we have a long and rich history when it comes to technology and manufacturing, we also have a long and rich history when it comes to institutionalized racism. Everyone thinks that just because our Mayor is black that racism doesn’t matter.
There are areas of Buffalo where it isn’t a great idea to be a black man… there are people here who fly the confederate flag. People will avoid eye contact with me on the street and sometimes even cross it if the sun’s not out. I never realized how abnormal that was until I visited Harlem, where people would at least give you eye contact and a head nod. I had never been surrounded by so many people of color in my life and I felt so safe. In my head I thought, “this is what white people must feel like all the time.”
I think the Black Lives Matter movement is extremely important. The only issue that bothers me is when people do negative things in the name of the movement. I think it’s extremely necessary to condemn any negative acts that would distract from the focus and mission.
Often, people will see my brother, my sister and me and say, “Oh, so she’s only your half-sister” which is not the case. My family doesn’t deal in halves. If you’re family, you’re family. Sure, she’s my sister from another mister, but I could never love her any less because of that. The only time I ever get upset with people is when they insist I am pulling some kind of joke on them. That’s my little sister and she is important to me and my family. I never understood separating the closeness of families with labels like that, so I don’t.
How I identify, racially, is largely impacted by which family I am with. Growing up, it was important to my black grandma that I knew I was black and that I felt a part of my predominantly black family. As a result, whenever someone would ask me what my race was I would proudly say “mixed”. My grandma has since passed, and I now live with the white side of my family. I feel largely disconnected from my black heritage. It is hard to have your race defined by others your whole life. When I would mention being black around some of my high school friends, they would laugh and tell me I was just a ‘white girl’. It made me so upset. I felt like I was being told that I was not a part of my own family in some way. But, now I feel like I do not have the right to be upset since my ‘whiteness’ has provided me with white privilege, something my black brothers will never have. I am angry that some people treat my brothers with suspicion because they are obviously black. I am also scared that my brothers may be injured or killed simply because they happen to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But I also feel guilty, guilty that I will never experience this type of prejudice since I am white-passing. More opportunities will be afforded to me, and not necessarily because I am more deserving.
My nephews, niece and I lived together for many years in a home that I purchased with their mom and grandmother. Together we adults did our best to prepare Romello, Matthias and Philomena for the realities of life and taught them to be true to who they are. But I know they and other children in our extended family perceive differences in how they are seen, even within our own family. I myself felt like I had to act a certain way for the black side of the family and a completely different way for the white side of my family.
I teach in a predominantly white, private school. Some students are not sure how to relate to me being biracial. I identify myself as both black and white to students by quoting my black mom or my white dad. For example, I told a white student to “sit yo self down” in the presence of a black student who immediately understood and laughed. Once a black student asked where I was going during a school break. I thought of my dad, who liked Ozzy Osbourne, and told him “off the rails on a crazy train” and a nearby white student laughed. But it’s not my job to answer “what are you”. One time a curious student from Africa asked me that question and I told him, “I’m a teacher here.”
My guess is that my predominantly white students don’t have the race talk at home, so I tell them this every year when we talk about prejudice: My first encounter with racism was centered around Damida, a rare Cabbage Patch doll that had dark skin. I loved Damida because I thought she looked like me. One day I took Damida to show and tell. I heard the older boys on the bus start to say the n word and I didn’t understand. I was confused and scared. When I got home I put Damida in the closet and shut the door. My mom asked me where Damida was. I told her she was in the closet. I didn’t want to be like Damida because she got called names. Mom talked to me about how I shouldn’t be ashamed of my, or Damida’s, skin color.
I was 6 the first time a white woman called me a ni**er and 7 the first time a child did it. It’s happened HUNDREDS of times since then. My mother didn't know how to deal with it (because we are Loving children). So she told me I had to either “learn to fight back or cry about it”. I learned to fight back. There was a story that my high school was built on KKK grounds. Redneck boys drove around it with shotguns and confederate flags. But I was labeled the “angry black girl”. The ONLY things that saved me were my innate intelligence and willingness to fight back. I was labeled a troublemaker but because I was so smart and tested so high, they really didn't know what to do with me. I struggled with my older brother being white-passing. It seemed like it was easier for him to navigate school and people cause he doesn't “look” as black as I do. Our families different shades were the source of consolation and pain. Because no one looked like us and we didn't look like each other. As a grown-up, I realize we ALL had challenges due to our various skin tones but growing up it was frustrating that no one looked like me.
Watching the “Corridor of Shame” documentary is what really woke the activist in me. Seeing how the south and its schools and public places are still so segregated made me so mad because I knew it was intentional. I had been raised to speak up against injustice so I began to make my voice louder. Social, political, economic, and healthcare justice is ALL intersectional. It's us against white supremacy. LGBT rights are tied to Black liberation. The first pride was a riot by a Black Trans woman. Hawaiians have modeled their non-violent protests after the civil rights movement. The Hawaiians acknowledge that many of their strategies come from Black Activists. LGBT rights are integral to Hawaiians because they have a HUGE transgender population (known as Mahu).
They get the idea that “we aren’t free until we are all free”.
It started with innocent rides home, and transitioned to my mother dropping out of high school pregnant by my father, who was black. My mother, whose parents did not believe in the mixing of races, kept me. She married my father, and they moved to the epicenter of racism in Western New York, Attica NY - home of Attica prison and the whitest of white communities When their relationship ended, my father retained primary custody. Growing up with him, it never occurred to me that I was different, although I obviously was. In the 3rd grade, I moved in with my mother full-time Life was much different.
In high school, some of the guys started to exhibit racist tendencies. I was referred to as “half-man” or “Oreo”. , I have often thought that perhaps I had brought this behavior on by allowing it to happen — laughing it off, or even “owning” the jokes in an effort to get along, fit in, or to just be what I thought was “cool”. I did have a line though….the “n” word was not one that I could tolerate. I remember the first time I heard it used…I lost it. I had a physical reaction that was felt by others. The funny thing…it wasn’t even directed toward me. In my heart, I know that I am black, but my skin is white. On the outside, people almost always perceive me as white, but I know that I am black. there are occasions when folks will ask me if I am mixed…but those are few and far between. This was an area of conflict for the longest time. My resolution…I am me.
Over the last few weeks, I have been experiencing a significant amount of conflict. I have been allowed to benefit from white privilege. By not participating, I feel as if I am betraying who I am in my heart. Almost like I am just not telling the world I am black. At the same time, I feel as if “raising my black flag” would be hypocritical after having enjoyed white privilege. Am I being forced to choose sides? If I stand up, am I willing to sacrifice the white privilege? Is this my Judas moment all over again? But this new generation, my oldest daughter, they will not accept that things won't change. She stands. She participates. And I am proud that she is strong enough to stand for others when I am not.
I identify myself as black as I always have and I’m damn proud of it. Being raised by a white family I was always reminded about being the only person of color. I have been mistaken for different races to a point where it has become normal for me. One time I was at dinner and when my waiter approached me he started speaking to me in Spanish. So I kindly told him I’m black I don’t speak Spanish and he replied with I’m sorry I just assumed. Which kinda bothered me for someone to assume my race. I have been mistreated by the police. I was driving through a supermarket parking lot and was staring at a cop standing outside the store. When I parked and walked up he approached me yelling saying I was giving him dirty looks and I better watch how I look at people. Of course, it made me angry but I’ve known since I was a child about how they treat us and it’s sad to say I’ve gotten used to it. It taught me to stay away from them even if I need help.
I’ve been worried about going to a demonstration and things getting out of hand. I would feel very different if I didn’t have kids or a girl. I’d have less to lose. The way we are being treated in this country we have a lot to prove. This movement is about us all being all we can be and being treated equally with the same chances for advancement in life.
Even when the kids were babies, there were always well-meaning women who would come up to us and ask us if we knew how to do their hair or if they needed a woman in their lives who looked like them. I tried not to be offended. But it rubbed me the wrong way. I felt like I had to tell these women about my own racial background or defend our parenting. Truth is, Todd and I went out of our way to make sure they had black women in their lives… babysitters, hairstylists, dance teachers, voice coaches and mentors. And even if my family wasn’t always around us, they were still a part of the kids’ lives.
Our own racial differences didn’t seem to be a big deal to them until they became teens. Then, it was like they wanted to show us by their choices in music, clothing, and food and through their cultural differences that they were different from us and proudly black with a capital B. I can laugh when they jokingly ask me if I’m sure I’m really black. But I know it stings Todd a little when they joke about something like his cooking and call it “white people food”.
Recently the kids decided to get a DNA test. Although we long suspected, based on the big differences in skin tones, that they were not full biological sisters, they wanted to know for sure. Even with the confirmation now that she is mixed race, my youngest proudly wants to define herself as Black.
Perhaps more importantly, they both decided that no matter what the test says, they share a belief that goes back generations in my family. There are no such things as halves. They are still sisters.
And no matter the differences between us or in how the world sees us, we are still one family.
- * Author’s note: Tragically, my nephew Michael died in a motorcycle crash on July 3, 2020. He had just turned 31. He leaves behind three small children. I hope that one day his kids will find this post and be proud of their dad’s vision of a world where all are equal.
