Nothin but love.

When I was little, I used to think all white people were happy. I mean, you have to understand where this comes from. I was the only black person I knew- well besides my dad. My mom was white, both of my big brothers are white (and for anyone who has an older sibling, you know that they hold the "infinitely more cool" status, simply for being older) all of my classmates were white, everyone on tv- you get the picture. As far as I was concerned it just seemed like life was easy for them. They never got ashy knees or had to have their hair relaxed. They didn't have expectations put on them of how to act or speak, what they're supposed to wear- they just smiled and laughed, their hair fell onto their shoulders in easy ways; they had jewel colored eyes in greens and blues; they had to be so happy. In fact, even further, I thought that if anything went sour in their lives, that in the back of their minds they must have thought "Well- at least I'm white...." Yeah, I thought that.

Needless to say, I've had a troubling relationship with my race.

I'm not like my Father. I wasn't there for race riots or Martin Luther King. I didn't see schools get integrated or witness the Montgomery Bus Boycott- I didn't have that rage or pride that seems to naturally come to other black people. Wait- ok, that's not exactly true. I do- and I stand by the theory that this is an inherent occurrance in all black people- get like, a deep, sort of animalistic rage whenever I hear (or read) the N word. Well, by a white person. (sorry).

But, okay- have you ever spent time with a Mormon? Actually, no, a whole group of Mormons? (Go with me on this) It's like- they have their own language, like a jargon. Sister this, elder that- Mutual, Family Home Evening, G's, Temple Recommend. Like a little club. I spent a good part of my adolescence wanting to be a part of that club. Nobody wants anything more, when they are a teenager, than to belong to something. That was it- I just didn't have anywhere to belong. I was accepted, but I didn't belong. Like everyone was having a dinner party and they set out an extra place setting for me at the last minute. I was there, but not entirely.

My adult life has been different. Now I look at what my father went through, what his parents went through, etc, and I think, this is an incredibly rich history. I sit with a group of black people and I think "I actually do belong to something." It's been a long time coming, sort of like falling in love, but I've fallen into step with it. Why wouldn't I want to be a part of that? Look at what we've done, look at what we've come through. I wasn't there, but- I'm a part of something. I do belong. I wear it on my skin.

I guess what I'm trying to say is :


Yup that's right. Ha ha ha! And proud of it!!!

*steps down from soap box*

And uh, there ya go.