Who am I?
Am I the work that I do, the goals that I reach, the mistake that I made last week?
Am I my gender, the clothes that I wear or could it be that who I am mostly is -
the color of my skin?
His words landed disruptively AND in the middle of our very private conversation.
In other words we didn’t care to hear what he was trying to tell us! We were not interested at all in his truth.
It was Saturday morning and I was five years old. Sitting at the table, eating a bowl of Lucky Charms, I was engaged in one of my favorite activities in the world—basking in the warmth of my little sister’s admiration. Denise was four years old and to say that she looked up to me would be a mis-characterization of our reality. She worshipped me and I milked that for everything it was worth.
The highlight of my week was Saturday morning because Saturday was when I had the time to really lay it on thick. I would embellish my kindergarten heroics and then ride the wave of adoration that would last me for an entire week. We would sit and I would talk, and as we separated our oats from our colored marshmallows, Denise would hang on every word that fell from my mouth.
On this particular Saturday however, I was less in need of worship and more in need of consolation, perhaps even affirmation, as I tried to sort through how I felt about being called such an ugly name.
“Black.”
That is how I replied when she asked me to tell her again.
“Black! They call me Black!” I protested - more hurt than I was offended.
Denise looked stricken, but I wasn’t at all worried because my plan was to fuel her misery just long enough to enjoy her company before I would tell her that none of what they’d said to me was true.
“Don’t you worry, honey,”
I told her (and I really called her honey).
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