I plowed through an online form, annoyed at repeating the same information on form after form after form, a million times a week. Why couldn’t the world centralize this stuff once and for all? Why weren’t these corporations tied in to auto-fill? Why should I donate my vitals to plump up someone’s data base? I plugged in my name and address, checked Black, supplied phone number, copy-pasted my website url. Bla bla bla.
After finishing, I went back through to catch typos. Above the race/ethnicity list, I noticed the instruction: Select all that apply.
What?
All?
Offered an opportunity to be more than singular, I froze. All would provoke a smackdown for stepping out of my place. The one-drop rule insisted I wasn’t enough Not-Black to claim anything other than Black. But the tap of a key was a tiny gesture. Far from earth-shattering, this tap of a key would register less than symbolic on the Richter scale. Less than galled me.
All. I leaned in to the danger, finger poised.
Do it, Dawn.
I checked White.
Energy shot through my spine.
I checked American Indian.
My chest puffed out.
I grew bigger than myself, made whole by ghosts.
My great-grandmother on Mama’s side was white, an Irish immigrant who married a colored man. After she ran back to Ireland, no photos of her found their way into the family album. Great-grandmother disappeared. But her whiteness lived on.
Mama could have passed. That is, if she’d been plucked away from the gaggle of nappy-headed kids trailing behind her calling her Mama. And all of us nappy-headed kids were Mama's color, the Irish woman’s color. I knew too little about her to claim my great-grandmother. I failed to see her in any mirror, or when smoothing lotion onto legs many shades lighter than Africa. Besides my skin color, what other traits did she hand down to me? Maybe I’m outspoken, because she was. Maybe I laugh too loud, because she did. Maybe I cannot tell a joke to save my soul, because she couldn’t. Nameless and faceless, Great-grandmother was more theory, than relation. After I selected all that applied, I felt both her presence and her absence.
My paternal double-great-grandfather was Blackfoot Nation. Isaac Johnson’s image and story are familiar in our family. A Civil War veteran, he peers out from a photo wearing a 19th century suit that reminds me of Gunsmoke. The picture is faded, but clear enough to guess. The lips are not African, neither is the shiny black hair. Further driving home the validity of my cautious claim, photos of his grown daughter, Granny Mum (great-grandmother, Dad's side) make me disoriented. How can I be Black when Granny Mum looked like she’d just walked off the res? How could I be Black when Granny Mum’s features were so classic she looked fake? The cheekbones, The nose. Lips. The long braid down her back. I stopped looking at Granny Mum's picture, and my Black equilibrium returned. Close the family album, and I didn't feel Isaac Johnson or Granny Mum in me. After I selected all that applied, Isaac Johnson and Granny Mum filled my lungs with Blackfoot Nation air.
While writing Blindsided: Essays from the only Black Woman in the Room, I was absorbed in color as though there were only one. I analyzed my black experience. Searched for black people to be black with. My vision was myopic. Black, black, black. Squished and puny, I was unequal to the task of being me.
When I selected all that applied, the ancestors swooped in. Where you been girl? Stand up. We got you.
After finishing, I went back through to catch typos. Above the race/ethnicity list, I noticed the instruction: Select all that apply.
What?
All?
Offered an opportunity to be more than singular, I froze. All would provoke a smackdown for stepping out of my place. The one-drop rule insisted I wasn’t enough Not-Black to claim anything other than Black. But the tap of a key was a tiny gesture. Far from earth-shattering, this tap of a key would register less than symbolic on the Richter scale. Less than galled me.
All. I leaned in to the danger, finger poised.
Do it, Dawn.
I checked White.
Energy shot through my spine.
I checked American Indian.
My chest puffed out.
I grew bigger than myself, made whole by ghosts.
My great-grandmother on Mama’s side was white, an Irish immigrant who married a colored man. After she ran back to Ireland, no photos of her found their way into the family album. Great-grandmother disappeared. But her whiteness lived on.
Mama could have passed. That is, if she’d been plucked away from the gaggle of nappy-headed kids trailing behind her calling her Mama. And all of us nappy-headed kids were Mama's color, the Irish woman’s color. I knew too little about her to claim my great-grandmother. I failed to see her in any mirror, or when smoothing lotion onto legs many shades lighter than Africa. Besides my skin color, what other traits did she hand down to me? Maybe I’m outspoken, because she was. Maybe I laugh too loud, because she did. Maybe I cannot tell a joke to save my soul, because she couldn’t. Nameless and faceless, Great-grandmother was more theory, than relation. After I selected all that applied, I felt both her presence and her absence.
My paternal double-great-grandfather was Blackfoot Nation. Isaac Johnson’s image and story are familiar in our family. A Civil War veteran, he peers out from a photo wearing a 19th century suit that reminds me of Gunsmoke. The picture is faded, but clear enough to guess. The lips are not African, neither is the shiny black hair. Further driving home the validity of my cautious claim, photos of his grown daughter, Granny Mum (great-grandmother, Dad's side) make me disoriented. How can I be Black when Granny Mum looked like she’d just walked off the res? How could I be Black when Granny Mum’s features were so classic she looked fake? The cheekbones, The nose. Lips. The long braid down her back. I stopped looking at Granny Mum's picture, and my Black equilibrium returned. Close the family album, and I didn't feel Isaac Johnson or Granny Mum in me. After I selected all that applied, Isaac Johnson and Granny Mum filled my lungs with Blackfoot Nation air.
While writing Blindsided: Essays from the only Black Woman in the Room, I was absorbed in color as though there were only one. I analyzed my black experience. Searched for black people to be black with. My vision was myopic. Black, black, black. Squished and puny, I was unequal to the task of being me.
When I selected all that applied, the ancestors swooped in. Where you been girl? Stand up. We got you.
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