A Point of View: My Black Ain’t Like Yours

Good morning Light Skinned Sister, 

I heard you talking about your Black experience. I appreciate that. I hold a place in my heart for you. I give you spiritual hugs and kisses every time the thought of you crosses my mind… and still, your Black ain’t like mine.

I listened with an open mind, as you recounted how the White students at your private school treated you as less. I remember you talked about how your University professors made you work harder for the “A” you deserved, while giving your White counterparts the same grade as a reward for their very minimal efforts. You were outraged. You were heated. You were passionate.   

I was shocked. I didn’t even know they were taking applications.  

You demanded justice. You demanded change. You demanded to speak to the University President.   

I quietly remembered that polite conversation I had with admissions. They said they would call me to follow-up when an opportunity to apply presented itself. I am still waiting on that call. I love you, Sis… and your Black ain’t like mine. 

I heard you talk about those times you used drugs recreationally. You said it was a trip like you never imagined. You needed to relax, unwind, just chill a little bit. You talked about it with such ease. I got a little jealous as I reminisced about how I tried marijuana in my early twenties. I was too paranoid to enjoy the experience because I was always so paranoid that I was going to catch a case. I could not sleep, so relaxing was not even a consideration. I am still hyper-vigilant when I see prescription pills, white powdery substances, or tiny, tightly round balls of grass. I am afraid that someone will mistake them for drugs and me for a drug addict. Using drugs to relax? You could talk to your parents about it? Now you have a Ph.D.? Nah, Sis, your Black ain’t like mine.

“You are a wonderful person.” I say that to you to reaffirm your acceptance on behalf of the Black community. You are Black enough. You are strong enough. You are fighting hard enough against racist systems. On behalf of the dark-skinned Blacks, here is your certificate of authenticity. You can keep it in your wallet and pull it out when your sincerity is in question. I wear mine. It goes well with my skin. Also, nobody told me how to take it off. I am giving you this card. Now we both have one… and still, trust me, baby, your Black ain’t like mine.

Now, let me be clear. I love you. I love you for your place in this world. As well, I love myself. I have had to learn how to express that, but it has always been true. I love my coffee-colored exterior. It reminds me of the motherland. It tells stories of experiences tailor made for me. I am a warrior of the light and a reclaimer of freedom, for light comes from darkness and restoration will be granted to those who have been in isolation. I am that understandable smooth shit that ancestors move wit. I am.  

You are...  You are my friend... You are my sister. With that being said, please honor me by acknowledging that your Black ain’t like mine. 

I write this as a call to action, a provocation, if you will. I ask that you hold a place in your heart for me different than the one you hold for yourself. Let me be different. Let me speak for myself. Make room for me at the table, the same table where you are eating your “just desserts.” Let me exist beside you and not just inside the limitations of your mind. You can only imagine what I tell you. You can relate to what you have heard, but I swear if you pass me the mic, I will sing a song so beautiful, so articulate, so moving, that they will play ours together as a Bad Boy style remix. I can hear us now kicking flavor in their ears

Thank you, Light Skinned Sister. Thank you for acknowledging that while our blues probably match, your Black ain’t like mine. 

Peace and Love, 

Claudia