Color

Color, the world would be so boring without it. Yet it makes life so difficult for some of us. Color? Simply how we perceive different light rays. White, as far as light wave lengths is concerned, is actually the presence of all light wave lengths that make different colors. Wikipedia explains it differently, but this is how I understand it. While Black is technically the absence of light or light waves that we can perceive. Black is technically a non-color.

So, how did this thing called color come to be an identifier of race? Hell, if I know. I just know it's been a pain in my red, white and black ass my whole life. What's wrong with simply being a member of the human race. Why is it when someone meets me they feel the need to categorize me according to the color of my skill? And some people find it disturbing if I don't fit into the niche that they are comfortable with.

Now as far as my skin color is concerned, I'm quite fond of it. I have a year round, head to toe tan. People buy lotions to rub on themselves to try and appear as if they have what I've got. They spend hours laying in the sun or pay to lay in a tanning booth. Or if you're on Dancing With The Stars, they spray it on you. None of that nonsense for me. God blessed me with the skin I'm in and I like it.

Problem is many other people don't like it. My maternal grandmother was quite ashamed of me and my younger brother when we were growing up. It was as if we were a stubborn stain on her favorite blouse. The funny part is my grandmother wasn't as white as she believed herself to be. Her mother was Native American, but we don't know what tribe. Her mother had been taken away and given to white people to raise and they married her off to a German man when she was twelve or thirteen. Now as far as this man was concerned, his wife's heritage was not up for discussion and he raised his children to believe they were white and to live nice white lives.

That man would of hated my mother. With her beautiful thick chestnut brown hair and her green eyes, my mother, like her mother, easily passed for white. But the last thing my mother wanted was a nice white life or a white man. She seemed to gravitate to the darkest brother she could find just to make my grandmother squirm. And despite any and all shame my grandmother had for me, she loved me. I know that with out a shadow of doubt. Not every grandma would spit on your principal out of love for you just to make her point. That poor man. I wish I could remember his name, but I have trouble remembering my own.

Try to imagine my dilemma when my own preference for men is white men. Oh, there have been some very upset parents after meeting me. I was always up front about being part Native American, because I knew that African American would cause trouble. Where I was growing up in Ohio, it was a much bigger sin to be part African American than Native American.

Except no matter where I go or what I do, I'm wrong. I cannot ever be considered white. This is a fact. And it's a fact that doesn't bother me. No spray tan for me, thank you. I already have my own.

The problem has been that I'm not black enough. I act too white. I'ld like to hear someone tell Oprah that. Now it's not my fault I never learned to be a proper black woman. I really didn't have my father or his family to show me how. I understand my blackness through the eyes of my mother's family. A family that was ashamed of me and my younger brother. As far as white people are concerned, they don't care how well educated you are or what a good person you are. You're not one of them and never will be.

When I gave birth to my daughter, a very kind white nurse was good enough to inform that even though it seems I actually have more Native American blood than anything else, if there was any amount of traceable black blood, no matter how distant, you were black. But she called herself doing me a favor by listing my daughter as Native American instead of black. As if it were going to affect how much I love my child.

So I grew up with my mother's family that was ashamed of me. I really didn't start to really get to know anyone on my father's side of my family until I was in my teens, but I was already me by then. Other black girls often wanted to beat me up because of my hair. Apparently, I was supposed to think I was better than them because I had hair. Black men are often interested in me which doesn't help me get along any better with other black women even though I rarely meet a black man I'm interested in. Then there are those nice white boys that no matter how much they love you don't have the balls to stand up against the pressures of their families. They marry nice white girls to make their moms happy and live unhappily ever after themselves.

Me? I'm still hoping to find happily ever after. And no I'm not only attracted to white men. Others may apply. I'm also attracted to Asian men and Native American men, occasional a Hispanic male. Ricky Martin watch out. I've got my eye on your bonbon. And the last thing I need right now is to learn I'm not red enough. Some life lessons we can really do without.