Race and Identity
Green Eyes, Light Skin
Understanding my identity as a black meditator
I am in 5th grade, and I am on a school trip to Disneyland. My teacher asks what my ethnicity is. I have been trained since I learned to talk to answer this question.
My parents have told me I am black or African American; I am not mixed. My mom and my dad are both blacks. I am too. There are other kids and teachers around, and I look up and tell her I am African American.
A teacher asks if I understand the question. Clearly, with my large green eyes, light skin, and little lips, I must not know my own race. I sigh and say, “No, I am black. All four of my grandparents went to segregated all-black schools. Everyone one of them was black.”
The other teacher interjects and reminds the class of how we learned about sexual misconduct toward slaves.
I feel relieved that this teacher will accept my answer but regardless of the statistical truth in her statement, it’s uncomfortable to have an old white lady tell me my ancestors were raped.
My mom grew up during the one-drop law, so although her complexion was even lighter than mine, she and her three siblings had all identified as black.
