What does it mean to be Black enough? I know, this is a crazy-making question. There was a time that it didn’t matter how light your skin or how straight your hair, you were black because you were born to a Black family. Unless you decided to pass for white, you lived as Black and you knew the community and family to which you belonged. Remember the one-drop rule? That was state law in almost every state in the USA at one time. When we lived in American apartheid, our schools, churches, businesses, and entire lives were centered in one community experience. Now we move back and forth between our homes and communities, our jobs and social lives, some which are mixed racially and some which are just as segregated as they were in the 1960s.
Since my grade school years were in the 1980s and during the time of the Rainbow Coalition, the supposed era of post-racial enlightenment, I didn’t have the experience of living in a lawfully segregated America. But the thread of colorism, of Black enough, has been woven through the centuries of the Black experience in this country. The separation of slaves based on skin tone and the advantages given to lighter-skinned Black people over time have caused resentment and division among us. I don’t dismiss the privilege of lighter skin in our world’s culture today. But I’m angry at the environment that encourages us to continue to divide ourselves.
When I was in grade school, I lived in a predominantly Jewish suburb of Boston. This was the era of forced integration and busing of children from the inner city to the more affluent suburban schools. I was fortunate that my parents bought property and lived in the town I went to school in. But in my school, most of the other Black children were bused in from the city. Here’s what I remember: I wasn’t White or Jewish, and I wasn’t light enough to be one of them (not that I wanted to be – I just knew I wasn’t). The Black kids were very clear that I wasn’t one of them either – I was a privileged light-skinned, long-haired girl who didn’t know what it was to be really Black, because I didn’t live in “the ‘hood” with them, and I obviously was stuck up and thought I was better than them (not true). I didn’t fit anywhere.
Eventually, I found my way. I figured out how to stand alone when I needed to and made friends with those who wanted to be friends with me. I found Black girls in high school who did want to be friends. I went to an HBCU Historically Black College/University), a least partially to have a four-year respite from the strain of being the representative for all Black people in my classes. My parents always were there, reminding me of who I was, my Black history and culture, and loving me wherever I was. Today I live in a suburb of Atlanta, I work as a Black physician, and I’m raising four Black children in a predominantly White homeschooling community. I’m very clear about who I am, what my Blackness means to me, and how that identity influences how I grow and who I serve. I love my friends and my family and my patients – but as a Black woman/wife/mom/physician, I have a special place in my heart to raise up my Black children whole in this racist world, to take special care of my Black husband that the world wants to tear down, and to be sure to see that my Black patients and clients get excellent, sensitive and culturally relevant care.
And yet… Within this year, I had a Black friend jokingly say to me that I wasn’t really Black because of how light my skin is. At that moment I wanted to throw up my hands, rage, shrink away. I became my eight-year-old self who still didn’t belong. I didn’t laugh it off and I didn’t ignore it, even though I wanted to. I told my friend that her joke hurt, and I didn’t want her to say anything like that to me again. And she said ok.
Colorism is still here, folks. We still talk about good hair and skin color. We’ve certainly made progress in self-love and in celebrating the beauty of Black people in art and media and popular culture. But when we still see discussions in the news about Kamala Harris and her Blackness, whether it be that she’s not Black enough because she was a prosecutor who put Black men in jail, or whether she’s not really Black because she also has east Indian heritage, or because she’s married to a white man, or because she’s highly educated and exceptionally high achieving, I wonder what exactly is needed to be accepted as a light-skinned Black woman in the Black community. It’s not as if she’s accepted as a white woman in the world. Why don’t we want to embrace her? I’m not saying you have to like every political decision she’s made or agree with all of her policies, but why do we use her Blackness or her supposed lack thereof as a weapon against her? The same tactics were used against President Obama…
I thought that I was finally old enough, wise enough, strong enough to be past all of this. And I am. I can stand apart when I need to and remember the lessons of my childhood. But I will admit that the comments and exclusion are painful – I wanted to let myself believe we had progressed further than this. I assume Kamala Harris must have some pretty thick skin to endure the public criticism she’s drawn over the years, so this iteration is just an expected level up from where she’s been. For me, I’m learning to do the same, to let these instances of colorism be reflective of the people who practice them instead of commentary on me. I love my family, my friends, my communities. And I continue to pray and work for all of them as best I know how. May we continue to evolve and grow in love for ourselves and each other!
We all have had times when we feel not enough in some way. Where have you experienced the sense of exclusion where you wanted to be included? If you feel able, please share in the comments below so we can support each other…
For those of you who’ve been waiting, here’s the latest class on Weight Loss: Going Deeper, What Should I Eat? This week, we’re talking about protein! It’s the building block of nutrition, right? What I’m going to say may surprise you…