Brown eyes, dark skin,five foot two, one hundred twenty three pounds with curly hair. Ever since I was old enough to remember I’ve had to be able to describe myself. And while I’ve changed in height and weight , I’ve dyed my hair and cut it multiple times, one thing remains the same...my skin color. I’ve been a wreck trying describe my chocolate coloring and to associate myself with a group of people. It took awhile to understand why I didn’t like the term “African-American” , but I filled in the little bubble anyway .I’m not an African American, my ancestors were, and I think that’s pretty fair to say.African-American is dated and the gift of restoration from America.For me, I’ve always known that I was brown colored and that somewhere generations
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I know it may seem a little demeaning to compare an entire culture to one bar of chocolate, but to me that’s really what it all boils down to.I won’t go as far as Raven Symone to say that I do not want to be defined or that I am above any label. If we’re using the term loosely,or filling out a census, I guess I am an African American. But I think it’d more applicable, to say that I am black...and I am proud. My skin is dark and my hair is kinky.My family gets pulled over by cops frequently and a lot of them have seen the insides of prisons. I am familiar with the poverty line, the welfare checks and the foster care system. In certain areas, I have seen women clutch their children’s hands as I walk by just to be surprised by my warm smile and greeting . Hip hop culture runs through my veins and deep bassy drums influence my dance. I am all too familiar with the sweet song of a jazzy saxophone and the shrill soprano notes of a gospel singer. I have too many cousins to count and I don’t know if they’re all blood related. As of a mere forty years ago, my aunt was the first in my family to walk across a stage and receive her Bachelor’s degree. Even more recent, my uncle was awarded for his whimsical bagpipe playing. I have red headed great aunts ,identical twins, caramel complected with green eyes, and they speak fluent German . My family is all mixed up and complex, and a bit of a statistic, but it’s all based in
I know it may seem a little demeaning to compare an entire culture to one bar of chocolate, but to me that’s really what it all boils down to.I won’t go as far as Raven Symone to say that I do not want to be defined or that I am above any label. If we’re using the term loosely,or filling out a census, I guess I am an African American. But I think it’d more applicable, to say that I am black...and I am proud. My skin is dark and my hair is kinky.My family gets pulled over by cops frequently and a lot of them have seen the insides of prisons. I am familiar with the poverty line, the welfare checks and the foster care system. In certain areas, I have seen women clutch their children’s hands as I walk by just to be surprised by my warm smile and greeting . Hip hop culture runs through my veins and deep bassy drums influence my dance. I am all too familiar with the sweet song of a jazzy saxophone and the shrill soprano notes of a gospel singer. I have too many cousins to count and I don’t know if they’re all blood related. As of a mere forty years ago, my aunt was the first in my family to walk across a stage and receive her Bachelor’s degree. Even more recent, my uncle was awarded for his whimsical bagpipe playing. I have red headed great aunts ,identical twins, caramel complected with green eyes, and they speak fluent German . My family is all mixed up and complex, and a bit of a statistic, but it’s all based in