December 9th, 2012
Black in America: It's not just about the color of your skin
Editor's Note: In today’s United States, is being black determined by the color of your skin, by your family, by what society says or something else? Soledad O’Brien reports “Who Is Black in America?” on CNN at 8 p.m. ET/PT Sunday, December 9.
By Moni Basu, CNN
(CNN) – What is black? Race. Culture. Consciousness. History. Heritage.
A shade darker than brown? The opposite of white?
Who is black? In America, being black has meant having African ancestry.
But not everyone fits neatly into a prototypical model of "blackness."
Scholar Yaba Blay explores the nuances of racial identity and the influences of skin color in a project called (1)ne Drop, named after a rule in the United States that once mandated that any person with "one drop of Negro blood" was black. Based on assumptions of white purity, it reflects a history of slavery and Jim Crow segregation.
In its colloquial definition, the rule meant that a person with a black relative from five generations ago was also considered black.
One drop was codified in the 1920 Census and became pervasive as courts ruled on it as a principle of law. It was not deemed unconstitutional until 1967.
Blay, a dark-skinned daughter of Ghanian immigrants, had always been able to clearly communicate her racial identity. But she was intrigued by those whose identity was not always apparent. Her project focuses on a diverse group of people – many of whom are mixed race - who claim blackness as their identity.
That identity is expanding in America every day. Blay's intent was to spark dialogue and see the idea of being black through a whole new lens.
"What's interesting is that for so long, the need to define blackness has originated from people who were not themselves black, and their need to define it stemmed from their need to control it," says Blay.
Blackness, she says, isn't so easily defined by words. What is blackness for one person may not necessarily be that for another.
"And that's fine," Blay says. "Personally, my blackness is reflective of my ancestry, my culture and my inheritance."
"Black," in reference to people and identity, she says, is worthy of capitalization. Otherwise, black is just another color in the box of crayons. (CNN, like other news organizations, does not capitalize black or white.)
CNN interviewed some of the people who participated in Blay's project to find out how they view themselves. What follows are their insights into race and identity.
Kathleen Cross: Black as a descriptor of color makes her identity hard to accept.
Black and white
California author Kathleen Cross, 50, remembers taking a public bus ride with her father when she was 8. Her father was noticeably uncomfortable that black kids in the back were acting rowdy. He muttered under his breath: "Making us look bad."
She understood her father was ashamed of those black kids, that he fancied himself not one of them.
"My father was escaping blackness," she says. "He didn’t like for me to have dark-skinned friends. He never said it. But I know."
She asked him once if she had ancestors from Africa. He got quiet. Then, he said: "Maybe, Northern Africa."
"He wasn't proud of being black," she says.
Cross' black father and her white mother never married. Fair-skinned, blue-eyed Cross was raised in a diverse community.
Later, she found herself in situations where she felt shunned by black people. Even light-skinned black people thought she was white.
"Those who relate to the term 'black' as a descriptor of color are unlikely to accept me as black," she says. "If they relate to the term 'black' as a descriptor of culture, history and ancestry, they have no difficulty seeing me as black."
At one time in her life, she wished she were darker - she might have even swallowed a pill to give her instant pigment if there were such a thing. She even wrote about being "trapped in the body of a white woman." She didn't want to "represent the oppressor."
She no longer thinks that way.
She doesn't like to check the multiracial box. "It erases everything," she says.
She doesn't like biracial, either. Or mixed. It's not her identity.
"There's only one race," she says, "and that's the human race."
"I am a descendant of a stolen African and Irish and English immigrants. That makes me black - and white - in America.
Biany Perez: Too Latina to be black, too black to be Latina?
Blackness and culture?
Biany Perez, 31, loves Michael Jackson but she doesn't know the Jackson Five. She didn't know that "Good Times" was a television show about a black family struggling to survive in south Chicago. Nor was she able to pick up certain colloquialisms in the English spoken by the black kids in the Bronx, where she grew up the daughter of Dominican parents.
Some people questioned Perez's blackness because she didn't fit into their definition of black.
She spoke only Spanish at home. She watched Telemundo and listened to Puerto Rican boy band Menudo.
She wasn't black enough because she was Latina and not Latina enough because she was black.
"The way I look shakes the image of Latina," says Perez, a program manager at a nonprofit in Philadelphia. "As I started getting older, I felt more comfortable in my skin."
Now, she calls herself Afro-Domincan.
"I think black is a broader definition I also embrace," she says. "Black is more than just saying that I am an African in America. It's political.
"It's about me connecting myself to my ancestors."
For Perez, black is about empowerment.
Kristina Robinson calls herself black over Creole.
Colorism
Creole identity is a complicated thing in Louisiana, says Kristina Robinson, 29, of New Orleans.
It's an ethnicity, a cultural designation for people descended from colonial settlers in Louisiana, mainly of French and Latin lineage.
The term Creole was claimed by the French and Spanish settlers in colonial times but it also referred to Africans and people who were a mixture of races. Those mixed-race descendants became a unique racial group and sometimes even included Native American heritage.
But in popular representation, Robinson says Creole has come to be defined as skin color.
She doesn't want to deny the rich Creole history but she doesn't identify as such if it means moving away from her blackness.
Black people think that her embrace of Creole means a rejection of being black.
"I never wanted to distance myself from my black ancestors," says the creative writing graduate student at Dillard University.
"They are the ones who claim me."
In her light skin, Robinson understands the insidious ways of colorism, a system in which light skin is valued more than dark skin.
"Colorism is a major problem within the Creole community and the black community," she says. "It's underdiscussed. It's perplexing and vexing how to work out this idea. I can see how the one drop rule is why we have so much colorism in our society.
"One drop is a lie," she says. "Black plus white doesn't equal black or it doesn't equal white. It equals black plus white."
She calls herself black. But other people think she is from India or the Middle East, especially in her academic work environment, where she does not have black colleagues.
"The assumption is I am not black," she says.
Ultimately, she believes environment plays a big role in identity.
Few people, she says, think that of her sister. One reason may be that her sister has more of a button nose. But another reason is that she works in a field with more black people, whereas Robinson finds herself in academic settings where she is the sole black woman.
Robinson acknowledges her lighter skin gives her privilege in a color-conscious society.
"But in those situations where you have to identify yourself and you choose to identify yourself as white - there's a big denial going on there.
"I do think it's troublesome when someone who is of mixed race chooses to deny that part of them that was oppressed," she says.
James Bartlett: White privilege means the freedom not to have to address race.
Race equals identity, or not?
Race is a social construct; identity is personal.
That's how James Bartlett, 31, views it.
"I'm black, I'm biracial," he says of his black father and Irish mother, who met and married in Louisville, Kentucky, just a few years after a 1967 U.S. Supreme Court ruling that made anti-miscegenation laws unconstitutional.
He was raised in an all-black neighborhood; his mother was the only white person on the block.
"I interchanged between saying I am biracial and I am black," he says. "The culture I live in is black. I felt black because black people considered me black. That was because of the one drop rule."
But later, when he went to Ghana, the locals thought he was from Lebanon. Kids called him "Oburoni," the word for a white man.
Bartlett felt as though he were being told he was not who he really was even before he could interact with them, as though they were taking away his black identity.
"It put me on the complete opposite side of the coin," Bartlett says. "The first reaction was to put me in a box."
In America, people thought of him as a lot of things but not usually straight-up white.
"It's difficult for me to separate race and identity," says Bartlett, the newly named executive director of the Museum of Contemporary Diasporan African Arts in Brooklyn.
He is black, he says, because he didn't grow up with white privilege. What is that? The freedom, he replies, to not have to address race.
"I definitely didn't grow up with that," he says.
Being white in America is also knowing that people who look like you are always representing your interests in institutions of power.
"That is the essence of white privilege," he says. "Regardless of changing (demographic) percentages and numbers, racial representation is going to remain out of balance for quite some time."
In some ways, Bartlett says, he has been more attuned to race as a light-skinned black man than he would have been had he been darker.
Bartlett feels white people in America are threatened by the tide of color across the nation and that it will give rise to an us against them" mentality.
"I think blackness will change, too," he says. "The biggest change in the near future will be the end of blackness as a diametric opposite to whiteness."
Charles Cloud: He could have passed for a lot of things. He chose black.
Here and abroad
Charles Benjamin Cloud, 63, remembers a time when he was angry at all white people. That was in the time of the white water fountain and the black water fountain.
"They had their side of town; we had ours," he says of his childhood in New Bern, North Carolina.
As the son of a Cherokee man and a part-Cherokee, part-black woman, Cloud could have passed for something other than black.
"If I had decided to tell everyone I was Puerto Rican or Mexican, people probably wouldn't have known a difference," he says.
But he didn't.
"I never wanted to identify as white," he says.
"Blackness is a state of mind more so than a physical experience. But back then, physical appearance was much more of a black identity than it is now."
Cloud joined the Air Force and traveled the world. His light, ruddy complexion threw people off. The Turks thought he was Turkish; the Iranians thought he was from Iran. He even passed for Greek.
But back home, he chose not just to be American. He was black.
Sembene McFarland gets strange questions because of her skin condition.
Losing color
What happens when you lose your color as is Sembene McFarland, a 35-year-old emergency room nurse in Newark, New Jersey?
She has a condition known as vitiligo and is losing the pigmentation of her skin. The disorder affects people of all races but is most prominent in those with darker complexions.
McFarland describes herself as "garden-variety black" but once her vitiligo became noticeable, she found herself the target of outlandish comments.
When McFarland was working at a cash register job at a Barnes and Noble, a customer told her, "If you got rid of the rest of the color, you would be a really pretty Asian girl."
"Thank you very much," McFarland told the woman. "Have a nice day."
Now, she can't relay the story without laughing out loud.
Others have wondered: Were you white first or black first?
"That blew my mind," she says.
Her skin condition shows how people think of being black so literally, she says.
"When I think black, I don't think a particular shade," she says.
McFarland was 16 when she first learned she had vitiligo. It was tough. At that young age, no one wants to stand out.
Later she laughed. In high school in Mississippi, her classmates always joked she wanted to be white. She spoke like a white person. Some people said she sat like a white person - all proper.
Now here she was, turning white.
In the end, McFarland says, it's not about black or white. It's all the shades of gray that make people uncomfortable.
Brandon Stanford: My complexion is not black but I am black.
Unique but certain
Brandon Stanford's parents met in school in New Jersey. His mom's Irish family rejected her for dating a black man.
They've been married 37 years.
In that time, a lot has changed about being a child of an interracial marriage. For one, the man who occupies the White House is the son of a Kenyan man and a white American woman. Many Americans think being mixed is "cool."
Stanford, 29, has his own take.
"I wouldn't say that being mixed race is either cool or not cool," he says.
"I'd say it's a reality that one can choose to embrace by seeing the beauty of a world where the possibilities of transcending the limitations of race and racism exists if one is able to recognize the oneness of humanity. Is this not what our democracy is supposed to represent?"
Stanford, a graduate student in African-American studies at Philadelphia's Temple University, has had his identity questioned by both whites and blacks. That makes being mixed race difficult for some.
Some times white people speak about black people in front of Stanford, assuming he is white. He lets them go on for a while and then says: "By the way, I am one of them."
"I have a unique position in the world based upon what my complexion is," Stanford says. "I always have an opportunity to unsettle people's minds."
But Stanford has never wavered on his identity.
"My complexion is not black, yet I am black," he says.
Stanford doesn't deny his Irish ancestry. The Irish, he points out, were thought of as inferior by the English. They, too, faced discrimination in the United States. Black people were often called the "dark Irish," he says.
But the Irish in America distanced themselves from the anti-slavery movement in the interest of joining the white mainstream, Stanford says. That's where his connection to the Irish stops.
"I identify myself as African-American because of the history of the culture," he says.
Kaneesha Parsard: Blackness stems from a moment in history.
The past in the present
Black unequivocally.
That's how Kaneesha Parsard, 23, grew up. She was the daughter of parents who immigrated to the United States from Jamaica in the 1980s.
She didn't understand what her father's ancestry - her grandfather was Indian - had to do with her.
"I took the one drop rule pretty seriously," says Parsard, a graduate student in African-American studies at Yale University.
Parsard's father was born in British-ruled Jamaica. He was raised with Indian people but identified as black because, she says, of how exclusionary Indian communities can be in Jamaica.
She began to think about her own identity when roti and chicken curry appeared at the Thanksgiving table.
"What I have come to realize is that ... people's history is intertwined, that being mixed race is not at odds with being black," she says.
"When we think about blackness, it's usually along a black-white context," she says. "But there are many histories, interesting histories of resistance."
For Parsard, blackness stems from a moment in time in 1492, with the discovery of a new land and a history of brutality that followed.
Appearance is a primary factor for many Americans in determining race and identity. For Parsard and others in Yaba Blay's project, it's not.
“People ask me ‘What are you?’ all the time. People tweet me that question. I used to take great offense, like immediately get annoyed; partly because I didn’t think the question came from a very good place. I think I read it as questioning my value and my reasons for being wherever I was. But now, I think it’s two-fold: One, I think that because I’m a journalist, people are really just trying to understand who I am. ‘You’re somebody I see on TV, but I don’t know you in person, so who are you?’ So often, it’s not really about the question. It’s about ‘What side are you on?’ and ‘What perspective do you bring?’ Then two, I think that part of my job as a journalist is to educate people about stories and some of these stories I’m a part of. I’m part of ‘Black in America’ even in the context of who is the filter of the story. So I’ve really gotten much better at taking that question and I’ve stopped hating it so much. It’s my job to elaborate and explain for people who I am. My mom is Afro-Cuban. My dad is White and Australian. I’m Black. I’m Latina.”
SoledadNew York, New York
“Black / Latina”
“Black / Latina”
“A lot of people just look and see skin color. I’ve actually had people ask me was I Black or was I White first. A White gentleman came up to me and said ‘I thought you might be White, but then I saw your lips.’ One girl said to me ‘I’ve been wanting to ask you this question, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking you because I thought that you might be offended, but are you Black or are you White?’ And I was just like, ‘Well, I’m always Black.’ When we were done with the meat of the conversation, she laughed and said something about my hair and my butt gave it away. People definitely let you know that they view being Black as being very literal – the amount of pigment you have. ‘Your skin is White, therefore you’re White. Or are you?’”
SembeneNewark, New Jersey
“Black / African-American”
“Black / African-American”
“You’ll hear many dark-skinned Dominicans talk about how things are hard for them, but if you ask them, “Do you think it’s because you’re Black?” they’ll tell you “I’m not Black! What are you talking about?!” When you have dark-skinned people trying to disassociate themselves from Blackness, why would somebody who’s of a lighter complexion want to be associated with that? So when people question my identity or my Blackness or my Africanness, I think it’s more that they automatically see my identity as a challenge to the way that they see the world and the way that they see themselves. It has nothing to do with me actually.”
DivinoWashington Heights, New York
“Afro-Dominican / Afro-Latino”
“Afro-Dominican / Afro-Latino”
“As an African-American, many of us trace White blood in our lineage to slavery and my family background is no different. The bottom line is my parents are Black, their parents are Black, my great grandparents are Black, and that makes me Black. I know there are people who are looking and thinking ‘She’s not Black.’ And that’s fine too. At the end of the day, I’m Black because I’m Black.”
KenyaAtlanta, Georgia
“Black”
“Black”
“I remember when I was in high school, some girls came in the bathroom and said ‘Oh you think you cute.’ No, you think I’m cute. It really made me start to think about how sistas, browner sistas, don’t really have a problem with me, but the aesthetic of me and the reification of that aesthetic within the context of North American White supremacy.”
KokoBaltimore, Maryland
“African”
“African”
“People in the street, Black and White, don’t tend to see me as Black. And being so light skinned, I can’t do the ‘Black man give another Black man a nod’ thing and just take it for granted because people tend to think I’m White. Brothers usually give me that ‘Who’s this White boy trying to be down?’ type of look. I could never describe myself as White, though. I’m very white, but I’m not White. That would feel like a huge denial of who I am. There are already hugely important parts of me that are invisible in mainstream society, so it feels important to me to always announce who I am. I’m Black and I’m Mixed-Race – I consider ‘Mixed-Race’ to be a category of Blackness.”
CrispinLondon, United Kingdom
“Black / Mixed-Race”
“Black / Mixed-Race”
“My father never laid on us about no yella or no light skin or no White or no passing or none of it. He wouldn’t let us get in our head nothing about none of that. He told us we were Negroes. He would tell us about how the White people took advantage of his mother and how we needed to respect her. He said, ‘You see Mama? You see her color?If you disown that, you disown her.’ So I never gave passing a thought.”
Angelina (104 years young)Fayetteville, Georgia
“Colored / African American”
“Colored / African American”
“When I went to Ghana, they thought I was from Lebanon. Or just White. Little kids running around yelling, “Oburoni! Oburoni!” I got a whole lot of that, which was actually unique for me because other than somebody thinking I’m Italian every once and a while, it’s very very rare that people think I’m White. People think I’m a lot of things, but just straight White usually isn’t the case. It was an interesting experience to be called White without even interacting with people; and it was definitely a little challenging because it’s almost like somebody telling you you’re not who you are.”
JamesBrooklyn, New York
“Black”
“Black”
“I think my way of speaking signifies Black, so people who get to know me through the radio have never thought to question it. A lot of times whenever I’ve met people in person who knew me from listening to me on the radio, they’ll say ‘Oh I pictured you like Barry White.’ I had never thought of it this way, but it may be that a part of the reason finding my voice in radio was comfortable was that it took that initial uncertainty out of my engagement with people.”
JayNew York, New York
“Black / Mixed”
“Black / Mixed”
“I feel like for some Black people, if I identify myself as Creole, to them that would mean that I don’t want to be Black or that I feel that Black is inferior. And that’s why I don’t identify like that because I don’t feel like that. I just resent the baggage that Creole identity comes with. Because racism is so insidious, Creoles are defined by colorism and prejudice. And I don’t want to be associated with or defined by that.”
KristinaNew Orleans, Louisiana
“Black from Louisiana”
“Black from Louisiana”
“As much as we have that origin, we aren’t African. That has to be perfectly clear. We are a mix. We live something else here. We don’t live in Africa. In fact, we don’t know what it’s like in Africa. It’s really different. For example, we have Capoiera Angola. Capoeira has an African origin, but the way it is today, it’s Brazilian. I think it’s the same with us. We understand where we came from, but we know that we are different. We live in a different reality, so we can’t say we’re African. We’re Afro-descendants. We’re Afro-Brasilian.”
GumaSão Paulo, Brasil
“Afro-Brasilian”
“Afro-Brasilian”
“I’ve been ‘invited’ to join the ‘Multiracial movement,’ but I find that there is a political agenda attached to that term that is supremacist and divisive. I love humanity—all of humanity, and I’m not interested in a catchall category of ‘Colored-but-not-Black’ like apartheid South Africa created nearly a century ago. I’m not eager to erase my Black or White ancestry to create a catchall. Today when I’m asked about my ‘race’ I say, “My father was a Black American man who descended from stolen Africans, my mother is an American of Irish and English ancestry.” I let people do what they will internally with that, which is what they are going to do regardless of the terminology I give them.”
KathleenLos Angeles, California
“Mixed / Black”
“Mixed / Black”
“Super conscious Black people, you know, ‘Fight the power’ Black people, they wanna fight me! I could walk into a room full of Black women and they would just dismiss me. Not see me as a ‘sister.’ My experiences are completely undermined because I’m so light. I know there’s light skin privilege. Absolutely. I’ve gotten jobs because of my light skin for sure. But you don’t have to rub it in my face and exclude me. It’s like they don’t recognize their own privilege because being ‘full race,’ so to say, is a privilege in itself.”
Tigist
Harlem, New York
“Ethiopian and German”
Harlem, New York
“Ethiopian and German”
“Trinidad is a cosmopolitan nation, probably more racially diverse than the rest of the Caribbean. We have descendants of European enslavers, freed Africans and enslaved Africans, Chinese and other Asian migrants, and a small East Indian population. You have all these mixtures and the mixtures are acknowledged. So I’m not Black in Trinidad; they consider me to be Chinese creole. They use all kinds of terms to identify people based on their racial makeup – ‘Indian,’ ‘negro,’ ‘creole,’ ‘Chinese creole,’ ‘Spanish,’ ‘coolie,’ ‘dougla.’ A ‘coolie,’ for example, is an East Indian. ‘Dougla’ is the mix of Black and East Indian. There’s really no difference between the two. It’s like saying ‘nigger’ and ‘nigga.’ To me, it’s all offensive. All of it comes from hateful places.”
Malene
Brooklyn, New York
“Black of Mixed Heritage”
Brooklyn, New York
“Black of Mixed Heritage”
“I think part of the misconception about Blackness is that it’s a skin color. For me personally, it’s just my way of life. Whether it’s my bloodline and family history, or the neighborhood I grew up in and the people I grew up with, or something as simple as the food that I eat, there’s so many different ways that I can identify with Blackness to where if somebody were to ask me, “Adrian, what makes you Black?” I would probably just counter the question with, “What doesn’t make me Black?” It’s not even something that I’m trying to prove. It’s just in me.”
AdrianBrooklyn, New York
“Black Puerto-Rican”
“Black Puerto-Rican”
(1)ne Drop Sister Project:
“Coloured: A Profile of Two Million South Africans”
Photography by (1)ne Drop Contributing Photographer, Rushay Booysen
Photography by (1)ne Drop Contributing Photographer, Rushay Booysen
“Coloured: A profile of Two Million South Africans” is a pictorial project titled after a 1974 book written by A. J. Venter. Much of the written text intrigued me, but the book failed to produce a visual aspect; one that I felt is very important. My interest in exploring the historical background of the Coloured people arose specifically out of the experience of being asked “Wie is jy?” – “Who are you?” Often when traveling, I found that I could navigate between various identities, but I also found that people stereotype what Africans should look like. That propelled me to start telling the story of my history, and what better way than to start with the visual aspect. As you navigate the project, you’ll find people of vast hues, hair textures, and facial features. This allows us to recognize our differences, but at the same time connects us through a common family line. The world is so obsessed with Black and White that it often discards people’s culture, their languages, and most importantly, the uniqueness of each individual. Through this project, I hope to relay the history of my people, as well as the complexity of racial identification. What do you get when you compact the descendents of people from Indonesia, Malaysia, Madagascar, Mozambique, Europe, India, China, Khoi, San, Xhosa, etc…? Beautiful Human Beings.
For more on the project, click here
