By Elizabeth Atkins
Copyright 2007
“You’re a black woman,” my friend Randall* said over lunch at a chic salad place in New York City. “Your mom is black, so you’re black. Period.”
Authority radiated from Randall’s handsome brown face; his eyes glowed with the same cocky intelligence that had whisked him through top universities in the U.S. and Europe.
“But Randall,” I protested, “You knew my father. He was white.”
“Yeah, he was cool, but you’re a sista.”
The bright yellow glow of my hair caught my eye in our reflection in the restaurant’s giant window. With my face superimposed over the sea of people streaming past on the sidewalk, I literally saw myself in the human kaleidoscope of color and culture that is so beautifully the essence of New York.
I tingled with pure BLISS.
Because that is how I view the world—as a Technicolor phenomenon where I’m free to celebrate the African American, the Cherokee, the Italian, the French and the English…
All the delicious flavors that swirl into my personal melting pot of white chocolate fondue.
But the moment was bittersweet.
Because, despite his worldly brilliance, my friend was not trying to dunk his opinions into the sweet, bubbling optimism of my outlook.
No, he was looking through the same-old foggy lens that sees only black OR white. Not the brilliant blends in between. Or the reality of our diverse world that was staring at him from across the table and walking by outside the window.
Nope. He saw only black. Or white. No gray area. And certainly no kaleidoscope.
“So Randall,” I said, glancing around the bustling restaurant. “Do you think all those people see me as black?”
“Black is a cultural thing,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you look like. You’re black on the inside.”
For Randall, my interior defined all of me.
My exterior, however, was the defining factor for a Caucasian female colleague just hours later.
“You look like a white woman,” she declared. “Certainly no one would look at you and think you’re black!”
Her hard-boiled New Yorker tone of voice struck me into still silence. The sirens outside the windows of her office made my insides feel even more jittery. I sunk into the leather couch.
Okay, I thought.
Randall just told me I’m black.
This woman just told me I’m white.
What am I?!?!
Fortunately, I’ve spent many years figuring this out.
It is my spirit that defines me. If you close your eyes and simply feel the loving energy that I radiate like warm sunshine, that is Elizabeth. And it’s not even something you can put into words. My spirit manifests her place in the world with deeds, actions. Being a loving mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Writing and speaking on subjects that promote harmony. Teaching children and adults to write. Sharing my writing skills to give voice to powerful stories and ideas. Exercising and eating healthy to inspire excellent health in others. This is me…
But whew! If I didn’t know the answer, I’d be one mixed up chick!
Black!
White!
Black-White-black-white…
This racial ping-pong match could make you crazy!
Or tragically confused.
That’s why the term “tragic mulatto” endured for so many years. From slavery to segregation to society today, mixed-race people have been doomed to languish on the color line.
Too black to be white…too white to be black… scorned, abused, taunted, terrified… into tragic depression, suicide, drifting, self-loathing.
Even now, this one-or-the-other mentality instills confusion and identity chaos for too many of us.
Blame the perverse power of “the one drop rule.” This wicked vestige of slavery continues to poison our perceptions of each other. It’s still achieving the divide-and-conquer objective of plantation powers who decided that anyone with a single drop of black blood was black. In fact, until just a few years ago, the state of Louisiana had a law saying anyone with 1/32 black blood was legally classified as African American.
Do the math to see how ridiculous that is! It means, if your great-great-great grandmother was black, so are you!
But while the law was abolished on paper, it still rules the minds of many, many people.
As a result, I and 7 million other multiracial Americans — including Presidential Hopeful Barack Obama — must constantly combat suspicion from folks who think we’re not black enough, not white enough…
But we are showing by example that we are enough. We are all that and more.
Just look at Tiger Woods. Mariah Carey. Derek Jeter. And the millions of folks who checked more than one race box on the 2000 U.S. Census questionnaire. We proudly celebrate ourselves as multiracial mosaics of all that America is supposed to be.
We confidently and courageously offer ourselves as symbols of hope for a colorblind world. Any mixed-race person who makes proud declarations of his or her interracial heritage does so, as the title of Mr. Obama’s book says, with The Audacity of Hope.
Because despite the world’s confusing and contradictory definitions of who we are—we have used that adversity as fuel to search our souls to discover our true selves beneath all the labels, the pigment, the categories, the contradictions.
“What is Race?” I asked.
I found the answers, and am inviting you on a personal quest for truth as well.
That’s why I’ll join a panel of experts to answer “What is Race?” at the National Association of Black Journalists convention next month in Las Vegas. The impetus for this provocative conversation is Mr. Obama’s quest for the White House. Scholars, journalists, the actor Isaiah Washington (whose DNA links him to a tribe in Sierra Leone) and I will engage a powerful dialogue about how one defines one’s own racial identity amidst the raucous, even malicious, opinions of the world.
So the question then becomes –
Who are you?
ARE YOU THE PERSON THAT THE WORLD SAYS YOU ARE…
OR ARE YOU THE PERSON THAT YOU WANT TO BE?
These questions transcend race—they hinge on the essence of a human being.
I challenge you to plunder the depths of your heart and soul to experience your true self. You have to, as my favorite mentor says, “shut out the noise.” Strip off the labels that the world has placed upon you – whether good or bad – and decide who you are, independent of that praise or criticism.
This is a momentous—even impossible task—for most people. Because the world is not going to “shut off the noise.” Every day, somebody is going to tell me about myself. That I’m black. That I’m white. That I’m biracial. That I’m white chocolate. Or black vanilla.
Doesn’t matter.
Because I know the truth.
So find yours. Then live it! Passionately, powerfully.
Because the beautiful thing is — when you define and become who you want to be, you, too, will tingle with BLISS.
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*This conversation is real, but I changed my friend’s name for this article.
Posted: July 24th, 2007 under The Bliss Report.
Comments: 10
