CARYN | RABBI’S ASSISTANT

I didn’t think I could claim my Blackness. It felt like being given a beautiful crown chosen just for me, to be worn only on special occasions. It was as though a little creature on my shoulder was whispering “You are entitled to wear this crown but not everybody thinks you’re worthy of it, so don’t wear it too often. You don’t want to push people.” I know I don’t look Black, but I promise I am. Once I stopped summer swim team, my bronze glow vanished almost as quickly as my upper body muscles chiseled from having swam the butterfly.

At home, it was never about race, nor about blood, because I’m adopted. It was always only about being a good human. Skin color didn’t matter to us; if it mattered to you, you weren’t our people. Was Daddy sometimes the only white person in the room? Yes. Was Mama the only parent of color at school things sometimes? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter. What they were was obvious; but for my sister and me it was different. Being biracial is like being a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get in terms of skin color. My sister has chocolate brown skin with black hair that falls in loose curls and cheekbones for days. She has the exact same face as my Mama. My skin is the color of coffee drank by people who dislike coffee, you have to search for the brown. No matter how old I get, my baby face remains. My mocha brown hair with flashes of red sticks out of my head in tight corkscrews. Even though we have the same amount of Blackness, my sister and I move through society differently. I didn’t fully grasp this until I saw someone slip her a card at the playground because they confused her for a nanny while she was playing with her own kids.

I spent my entire life not quite sure which one to be… because being both didn’t seem possible. If I played white, I was abandoning my rich history, not claiming half of my family, and taking advantage of the people who fought for my right to drink from the same water fountain as my father. If I played Black, I stuck out like a sore thumb and it felt like I was in the room but not ever at the table. I was frequently labeled as “the white girl trying too hard.” When I put my hair in braids for summer camp, I was accused of cultural appropriation by some of the other campers and even a counselor. I was always too much or not enough, and it was exhausting.

As a result, I gave up and actively chose to stop caring. It was denial and suppression masked as self-care, drenched in privilege. I didn’t snap out of this stupidity until I overheard a guy I was dating say “It’s okay for me to date her, because you can’t tell she’s Black.” Letting that disgusting ideology slide was letting racism win. I couldn’t do it. We broke up that evening.  

What I thought was weighing me down was actually the source of my firepower. I am here on this planet at this time for a reason. When I’m in more white spaces, I find myself being the voice of color; I am often asked to be. That used to make feel uncomfortable or inadequately prepared to speak for an underrepresented people group. Now I embrace it! I get to be part of the long overdue racial healing that needs to be done in Black communities where they have been hung to dry by white people through legislation, gentrification, and redlining. My favorite part? I get to show little girls that their hair is beautiful in its raw form without chemicals or heat styling. All of this is certainly not my job, but my privilege. If not me, then who?

I wear my crown every day now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.