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“You’re Not Black Enough”

Ever since I was little I always disliked hearing the word, “black.” When those words first left my mother’s lips, I said, “no mommy, ‘brown’.”

When looking at other girls, I would often say “those brown brown girls,” to refer to the girls who’s completions were darker than my own.

It’s not that I hated being considered, “black,” but that the physical color of my skin did not match the crayon in the box. I never colored with that crayon anyways! Except maybe, to draw and outline the foundation for my “colored life”…

Actually now that I think about it, “black,” was always my outline. It was the base for which I drew my family, friends, and even my home itself. Maybe that’s because I’ve always known that I was, “black.”

But, then again, now that I think about it…who’s coloring with the white crayon? I mean come on, out of all of my crayons, (I only had the 24 pack because it was a quarter and my ma was not about to spend an arm and a leg for a box of crayons which isn’t going last long anyways), but as I was saying. Out of all of my crayons, there were only two crayons which I never really used; black and white.

Now it’s not because I thought that they were useless or ugly, it’s because to a 4 year old learning to match colors, I HAD NEVER SEEN ANYONE WITH BLACK OR WHITE SKIN! (Keep in mind, I’m four so I’ve never seen albinos or people who live basically in the equator).

Now be honest, go ahead, raise your hand, how many of you actually used the color white when you were little? And no, you can’t count when you drew clouds on blue or black paper. Thought so.

You know how whenever we were told to draw ourselves, our drawings were supposed to look like us? Well, I never though my skin as black or that my friends were the color black. So whenever I would draw my friends and I, I would always use the peach or apricot crayons for them and brown for myself.

Because in all honesty, my skin does look more like the brown crayon than the black one.

If living in America and the one sociology class I took has taught me, it’s that the concept of “race,” is “Made in America.”

For one, my ancestors were brought over from where they were born and placed into America, the “land of the free,” and “the home of the brave,” yet, everyone here is anything, but “free” or at “home.”

All our lives we were placed onto this color spectrum for which we now identify as, at the same time forgetting who we once were.

Why am I "black?"

Why are Asians "yellow?"

Or Mexicans "brown?"

Like my skin is brown too and I’ve even seen Mexicans who have darker skin than me.

And even my mom’s foundation share is three shades lighter than mine, so how is she “black?”

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Okay wait, wanna hear a funny story?

Okay so when I first got to high school, I loved it. No not because of the classes or making new friends, but because when I got there the kids there gave me a really funny nickname. Wanna guess what it was? OREO! Common laugh, isn’t it funny? I mean, here I am, this “black girl,” who “talks white,” or doesn’t act “ghetto,” so I’m not considered “black enough.”

But wait, why is it that speaking articulately is associated with “white?” Or why is it that all black people have to be ghetto?

Like what if I talked like this? Does this make me white?

Why is it that America is a “melting pot,” yet when placed in a group of our own “kind,” racism comes out? If we’re all now “Americans,” why does the color of our skin matter? Do I not breathe the same oxygen as you? Is my blood not red like yours? When I can’t see do I not get glasses like you?

Why does the color of someone’s skin have to be associated with an attitude or a voice?

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Why can’t I just be DeAnna, not “that black girl that talks white?”

Because it’s sad that it’s 2016 and racism is still a topic of discussion.

Because teaching children about the color of their skin should be associated with the stories about where their ancestors came from or about what it means to be Black, or Hispanic, or Asian, or Caucasian, not about how the color of our skin matches the crayons in the box; especially when there's boxes with 150 [crayons] in them.

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