I seem to get called out on the bus a lot.
I remember it like it was yesterday, when in fact, it was 19 years ago. I was 6, on the way to my suburban elementary school named after a famous astronaut. The kid sitting in front of me kept standing up on his seat so that he could look down on me.
“Hey…hey…hey…hey!”
He kept jumping up and down on the seat. I ignored him. He got louder.
“Hey…Gotta ask you something.”
Ignore.
“Are you black or white?”
I was floored. I looked up at him in confusion. Couldn’t this kid see the color of my skin?
“I’m white.”
“Oh, okay,” he seemed relieved and sat back down.
Later on, I relayed that story to my Mother, expecting her to laugh at the silly little boy but instead, she patiently explained to me that I was in fact, black because she was black, Dad was black and…well, pretty much everyone else in my family. I remember shaking my head and explaining to her that Grandma Alberta was black because she had brown skin, Uncle Dwight was black because he had brown skin, Dad was maaaybe black (because his skin is a very light brown) but she and I were white because…our skin was white. Simple as that.
I was 11 and on the bus, making my way to my suburban middle school, when I felt someone watching me. I looked up to find three of the older black girls staring me down. They point and whisper. I self-consciously check my hair and clothes. Finally, a spokeswoman, an ambassador if you will, is chosen and she makes her way over.
“Are you black or white?” she demands.
“I’m black.”
She considers this for a moment before taking this news back to the tribunal. They don’t seemed satisfied with my response, so a new ambassador is chosen and sent over. She looks pissed, for some reason.
“But you’re like, mixed, right? ‘Cause you don’t look like any black girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Well,” I think about this for awhile. I mean, technically yeah. Most African-Americans are mixed, unless their parents are fresh off the boat from Africa. She doesn’t like this response either.
“So, is your Mom white?”
“Nope.”
“Your Dad?”
I sigh. Then patiently explain that both of my parents are light-skinned blacks and their parents are blacks, and their parents are black and cherokee, and their parents are black and irish. I go back to the slave owner that raped my great, great, great, great…Grandmother. She looks genuinely confused and returns to the tribunal. As we are getting off the bus, she approaches me one last time.
“So, are you gonna sit with the black girls or the white girls at lunch?”
