I guess looking back, I don’t see how I couldn’t have known. However, for me, it was like being hit by a train — sudden and painful. I first noticed I was black as a fifth grader.
I was the only black student in my class at a predominately white private school. It was Valentine’s Day. I’m sure most people remember how Valentine’s Day worked in elementary school *nostalgia alert,* so you had to bring a valentine for everyone (but of course, you brought a super special one for your BFF or crush.) This particular Valentine’s Day was just like any other, filled with candy, heart-shaped everything and of course, those themed cards from classmates.
As I was accessing my candy stash, my crush walked up to me. With few words, he handed me a little stuffed monkey with hearts all over. I was on cloud nine. After giving it to me, he said, “I would ask you to be my girlfriend, but I can’t.” That was enough to knock me down to Earth. Fighting tears, I had one question. “Why?” His response was quiet, but deafening. “Because you’re black, and I’m white.” I threw the monkey then ran to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror, vision blurred by my tears. Then it hit me. I was black.
Why hadn’t anyone told me? I mean, of course I knew, but it never crossed my mind as something that divided me from my white classmates. I stared at myself in the mirror. Was it my hair that made me black? It was extremely curly, and took a long time to do in the morning. The kids in my class always wanted to touch it. I started to wish mine looked more like theirs — long and straight. Would I be black then?
Was it my skin that made me black? I was always very light skinned. My skin was barely darker than theirs. I wondered what I’d look like if my skin was lighter. Would I still be black then? I looked at my eyes. They were large and brown. Most of my classmates had blue or hazel eyes. Would I still be black then?
I tried to picture myself with straight hair, light skin, and blue eyes, but I couldn’t. I couldn't see how a change in physical characteristics could make someone white or black. We are all people, and from what I learned in fifth grade science, we look pretty much the same on the inside so why did a title matter so much? That’s when I decided that it didn’t. From now on, whether someone was black, white, or even red, yellow or blue for that matter, I would treat them with respect, kindness and love. I would never treat someone differently for the color of their skin. I looked in the mirror, wiped my tears, then smiled. I was black, and that was OK.
