‘You’re not black’ she said to me, as we walked home from school.
I could feel heat spread on my brown face,
Feeling hurt and angry.
Why would she reject me? I am part of this community.
So I passionately, defended my ‘black’ identity.
She rolled her eyes and with amusement in her voice, spoke over me.
She repeated the words but I refused to accept.
We are the same. Why couldn’t she see that?
I blubbered all the way home,
wanting to convince her, I was like her.
Black.
I was young, no older than 10 years of age, but I remember that moment vividly. It’s a pivotal moment in my life because it was the first time I came face to face with an identity crisis. It was hard for me to comprehend because all I desired was to feel connected. I couldn’t identify with a group, which I believed consisted of the African diaspora. In my mind, because I was African, I was black. And because she was black, she was African. But she didn’t see it that way. She was black, but she was not African. I was African, but not black.