We Don't Talk About Brownness

 I was thinking about how I felt growing up as the only black little girl in a school of whiteness.  Each year, there was one history lesson that forced me to cringed and sink deep into my seat.  Slavery.  You see, the only time in school that I heard anything about people who looked like me was when we talked about slavery and the Civil War.  Think about that for a moment.  A young girl, dealing with body image issues, feeling she fits in, kinda, and then the only part of history she can relate to is that people who look like “them” owned people who looked like her.  

There was no talk of inventors, doctors, or astronauts.  Every once in a while, I would hear about the “black guy who invented peanut butter,” but it was  not connected to the fact that he was also the man who created WRITING INK; something that is used every day to this day.  I remember blushing whenever the color brown or black was mentioned.  I assumed all eyes were on me even when someone was asking for a crayon.

I attended a small private college that considered itself ‘diverse’ thanks to the handful of us brown folks that made it that way.  I will never forget sitting in a lecture with Psychology professor Dr. Carlson when he showed the film Keep Your Eyes on the Prize.  I could not understand why sophomore year in college was the first time I was learning about this.  I had to excuse myself when tears flooded my eyes after learning about the murder of Emmitt till.  I had a deep feeling of grief and loss as I watched that portion of the film.

The weekend following that class, I visited my parents and explained how hard I was hit by the story of this young black boy who was brutilly murdered when a white woman accused him of flirting with her.  She later confessed that she had lied, but by then, the damage was overdone.  My dad said, “You know that was your uncle, right?”  I stood in the kitchen, dumbfounded, with my mouth hanging open - WHAT?!  My dad continued, “Emmitt Till was my first cousin.  His mom and my mom were sisters.  He was from Chicago and was visiting family down south for the summer.”  He continued, “Actually, I was supposed to be there with him at that time.  Just before we were supposed to leave, I was riding my bike and was hit by a car.  I was in the hospital and missed out on the summer trip.  That accident very well may have saved my life.”  I bawled.