Where am I from?

Disclaimer: The essay below will be submitted for publication to an independent zine as well as be passed on to Godsil, who is interested in chronicling stories of alternative Euro-American histories. I post this here for the general public, my blog readers and of course - third party marketing groups (hi Rupert). Anyway - there are some mildly shocking statements made regarding my personal history - those particular points I do not want separated from the whole document. I’ve written a collage of experiences here - no one should stand out more than the other.

Talking about identity

I’m walking down the street making eye contact, admiring the bronze skin, the deep chocolate colored skin and sometimes I remember there was a time my freckled beige skin stood out wildly against the community. I grew up in the south, all over the place. No, I wasn’t an army brat, I had a nomadic white mother who’s emotional entrapments included black men, rural areas and high temperatures. Everywhere we lived, we were the only white people in the neighborhood.

I can’t remember much from living in Florida or Texas, and I sure can’t ask her about those places anymore… so what I remember the most of is Midway, Alabama. Where is that you wonder? Well… Midway between nowhere and nothing Alabama. You might be able to find it on a map, but really, the “town” was just a collection of rusty brick homes, trailer homes with extensions built on and tin sheds left over from cotton picking days within a ten mile stretch of HWY 51.

Look it up, go to googlemaps.com and look up Midway, Alabama. You see the main cluster of streets? Yeah, we didn’t live in town, we lived about 20 minutes from town, north east on a road that used to be called Rt. 2, but may be Good Hope road now, or something. Who knows. Last time I was there was for mother’s funeral.

Anyway - my history doesn’t show on my skin. To most Afro-Americans in my company today, I am just another white lady/girl/bitch. They can’t see my first kiss was a black boy, my first crush a handsome hazelnut colored brother named Donavan Larkin. They can’t see me picking peas in a field with Gramma ‘Mada also known as Big Mama. No, all “they” see is my peachy colored skin and green eyes so “they” put my face on all the history lessons their ancestry has taught them.

So where am I from? Who am I? I guess I am just someone else’s history lesson. Because I do not bear the tell-tale shade of kahlua colored skin and brown eyes with kinky hair I cannot show that I have black family. Because I do not within me contain one ounce of African Blood (the most powerful blood of all, as Langston Hughes said in Simple Speaks His Mind) I do not qualify as a familiar face.

It gets worse as I get older. When I was in middle school, after moving to Milwaukee, I had a few black friends. One girlfriend, Nicole, was the only black girl to invite me to her house for a cook-out. We used to hang out in Riverwest, on Buffum Street and get into trouble like any two kids would given enough time and inadequate supervision. Her mom and sister would make the cornbread while Nicole and I begged for a piece of pecan pie Auntie Sharon brought by. No one gave a shit about my white skin when I was 10, 11 or even 13.

But something happened as I got older, things got more separated. It was like the worst lie being discovered, when you think the city has all the cultures right there, together but you discover the separation. In the city, no one knows you from Eve, and no one particularly cares, right? In highschool I tried to hold on to my few friends from middle school, but it just didn’t work. The skin tone of people closest to me got lighter and lighter. Even the “token black friend” was half black and not particularly interested in that half.

It wasn’t until years after high school that I realized Milwaukee was the 5th most segregated city in the nation. It wasn’t until a few fist fights with strangers in designated “black” neighborhoods that I realized the color of my skin was enough to incite violence and resentment. It wasn’t until I was sexually assaulted by a black guy and then a few years later mugged by a black guy that I started to see stereotypes.

I’m strong, tough and resilient. I’ve been dealt an abundant share of bad luck and have rebounded quite well, keeping the philosophy, “What don’t kill ya makes ya stronger.” But what really died inside me was my identity with all the lovely people back home that kept me in tune with “black folks” here in Milwaukee. I didn’t see color as a line, or a zip code or a potential source of violence until I got here.

Don’t get me wrong. I have black friends in the community, and I believe in the power of communication to bridge misunderstandings - but what I’m really talking about is identity. My mother’s family down south was a long line of beautiful black people from all over the place with kin up yonder an o’to Georgia. They were the only folks I knew growing up. My culture was 2nd Sunday dinners, catching the spirit at church while the Preacher spoke to our hearts about the lord, trampling through the woods with sticks chasing sunlight, learning how to straighten black folks hair, learning how to plait hair, roll it up nice for company, cook cornbread and flat bread and greens and shuck peas and chop kane and weed the fields and… You get the picture.

Here the sad truth is it isn’t so easy to cross the color line in Milwaukee. So thinking about who I am and where I’m from in relation to Milwaukee is difficult. It is embarassing. After the funeral, back in 2002, we had a feast, of course. I was sitting around talking to Big Mama (who was by then almost a fossil, but still had her wits) about school/work and she says, “Gurl, you done been hangin’ ‘round ‘dose white people too long. Don’ be gittin too good fuh us, you member where you from.”

I remember where I’m from. It doesn’t directly relate to where I’m at, but that’s alright. We shall overcome.