I just read a very interesting article about black identity in “The Root,” and the comments to the Facebook version of the article are even more interesting than the article.

Perhaps the Facebook version got so many angry comments because “The Root” introduced it on their Facebook page with this line: Believe it or not these are black faces.
And they were talking about the faces in the photos above.

The comments were full of anger from some black folks who took offense at people being called “black” when those people did not have dark skin and looked nothing like them. Their comments were countered by multiracial folks who took offense at certain people taking it upon themselves to define who can call themselves “black,” and who cannot.

The resulting discussion about black identity, race, and ancestry was interesting and enlightening. It reinforced something I had learned the hard way by offending some black folks online when I said that President Obama is not actually black. What I learned then was something I have learned the hard way before, thought not well enough. I learned for the umpteenth time that I know absolutely nothing at all about being black, and that I would do well to remember it. In typical white-centered condescension, I thought black folks would appreciate that I was debunking the old 1% rule and accepting Obama as white, even though he looks black. I pointed out that he was raised white by a white mother and white grandparents in a white world, and since he is biologically 50/50, his upbringing makes him white. I pointed out that we have seen him dance, and he dances like a white man. I was told quite bluntly that I don’t know what I am talking about, and that I should stay away from the topic of who is black and who isn’t. I was shocked by the reaction, and was not sure why it had happened, but I considered for the first time that “black identity” exists, that if anyone is going to create and define it, that would be black folks, and that I don’t know squat about it. I also realized the obvious, that people of color were proud to claim the President of the United States as one of their own, of course.

So, I am not going to get into the fray of discussion about the topic of what is “black,” and who gets to call themselves “black.” I am going to simply observe and learn. But I wanted to share a couple of things about this topic.

First, I am hoping that my genealogical research will reveal that I have at least one African ancestor. I think it would be fun and interesting. If it happens, I will think long and hard before calling myself “black,” and I will remember that I still don’t know anything about being black,

Second, I never used the terms black and white to describe people to my daughter when she was little, and I never introduced her to the concepts of racial identity at all. I simply described people as light skinned or dark skinned as I would describe their hair or eyes. I also made a point to not always describe them by their skin color first, but to vary the traits as if they were of equal importance. I might describe someone as, “brown hair, dark skin, etc etc,” or “light skin, blue eyes, red hair,” and that sort of thing.

I felt wonderful about that, and was pleased when my daughter would describe people the same way and sometimes would not mention a black person’s skin color at all. I was raising a truly color-blind child. I was raising her to live in the world as it should be,

It got tricky when she was in pre-K. On Martin Luther King Day, she came home with a picture of him that she had colored. I praised it and said, “Oh, Dr. Martin Luther King.” We sat there in silence for a minute, and then Emily asked me, “Mom, what did he do?” I asked her if the teacher gave them a lesson on him, and she said, “Yes, but I didn’t understand it.”

“Well,” I said, “Have you noticed that some people have light skin and some people have dark skin?”

“Um, yea.”

“Well, a long time ago in our country, the light skinned people were oppressive to the dark skinned people.” I had to explain what oppressive is- that they were mean to them and kept them down. I explained about slavery.

“REALLY!?” she exclaimed in shock and disgust.

“Yes. Our ancestors were oppressive to the dark skinned people’s ancestors.” She was really horrified, and I let that sink in for a second. “Even today, some light skinned people try to keep them down, just because of their skin color.”

“Why!?”

“Because they can, Sweetie. And because it makes them feel good about themselves to put others down, and because of fear that others will get ahead of them. Lots of reasons really. But Dr. King helped them a lot. It would be a lot worse today if not for Dr. King. That is why we celebrate him and have a holiday for him.”

I hated having to explain that to her. We had other such conversations. My daughter had always gone to integrated schools and the one “neighborhood” we had lived in had been integrated, with a black woman living next door to us. But one day I was taking my usual short-cut that runs through a particular part of town and she noticed, with curiosity, that there was an unusual number of people with dark skin there- in fact, it was everybody. They all had dark skin. Then she noticed that the stores and houses and everything looked different than elsewhere- worse. Old. Run-down. I explained about the history of segregation. She was shocked.

The hardest situation occurred when we were at the public swimming pool. A huge group, and I mean huge, of African American people arrived and set up at 7 or 8 tables behind our lounge chairs. My daughter didn’t really notice, but I am conditioned to notice. They put up balloons and put out cake and party supplies. They put a crown with the number “1” on a little boy’s head. More people arrived with gifts. It was a big party and everyone had dark skin. The little boy was running all over, and he came over to us and was picking up some Mc Donald’s Star Wars toys that my daughter had under her chair, looking at them. His family fussed at him to put those down and get back over there. We went in swimming for a while, and when we came back to our chairs, one of the toys was gone.

“That boy took my toy Mom.”

“We don’t know that he took it Sweetie.”

“Of course we do! What do you mean? Who else would take it?! Go get it back!”

I certainly did not want to do that. “Aw Honey, it is just a McDonalds toy, he is only 1, and it is his birthday. Let’s just let him have it, OK?”

“No! You wouldn’t let me get away with that when I was 1 would you? It is mine and I like it. I want it back. Go talk to his parents and tell them he took it. It is mine, Mom. I want it back. Why won’t you just go over and tell them?”

I realized that I would do exactly that if it was a white group. They didn’t give off friendly vibes, except for the little boy, but if they were unfriendly and white, I would still go tell them that we think their little boy picked up something of my daughter’s. I went over. It wasn’t far, but it seemed to me like a long hike. The boy was sitting on a young woman’s lap and I approached them as everyone looked sideways at me.

“Excuse me, but I think your little boy picked something up from under my daughter’s chair.” She just looked at me, as if she was afraid, I said it again, adding that I don’t blame him, he is only one, and I don’t want to cause a problem on his birthday, but my daughter would just like it back now, if he has it.

An older woman at another table called over to me angrily. “She is just a child.”

I went around to that woman, with Emily following behind. I had admonished her to let me do all the talking. “I just wondered if you could look in his things and see if…”

“She is just a child and you frightened her.”

“I’m sorry. I thought she was his mo…(uh oh)”

“She is 12 years old!!” She starts reaching for her purse. “How much was it- the toy?” She is getting out money.

“I don’t want any money. I just wondered if you would look and see…”

“He didn’t take it. But how much was it?!”

“I don’t want money. It was just a McDonalds toy. If you could just look…”

She thrusts out a couple of dollars. “Here! We will pay for the toy.”

“No. He can have it. It is his birthday. It was free- a McDonalds…”

“No! We will pay for it.”

“No….”

Emily: “C’mon Mom. It doesn’t matter.”

We went back to our chairs. After a little while, the woman came over sheepishly and with great embarrassment, handed me the toy. I tried to make nice, but she just turned and walked away.

“I knew he had it!” said Emily, with great satisfaction.

In the car on the way home she asked me, “I wonder why those people acted like that about the toy. That was weird.”

I might have just said, “yea,” and left it at that. They were just a group of weird people. But, I gave her the explanation that I believed to be true.

“Did you notice that they were all dark skinned people?”

“Yea, so what.”

“Well, over the years, dark skinned people, black people they are called in our culture, have been accused of stealing by white people so much that some of them are defensive about it. They have an attitude.”

“Yea.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to go over there. I had a feeling it would be like that from looking at them.”

“I didn’t know, I thought you just were not sticking up for me and getting my toy back for me.”

“I know you did, and I didn’t want you to think that. And I decided it would be best to treat them exactly the way I would if they were white.”

“Yea.”

That day, my daughter and I both learned that there are no simple answers or solutions to problems of race.

Go to “The Root” article