Hey mama, I took a DNA test. I am black. I grew up wanting to be white, but I am black, brown, stupid, ugly––at least that’s what I am thought to be, and if not that, I am so exquisite that I am captured in every photo the school’s photographer takes because being black is beautiful right? Especially when you want to promote an environment where so many drop-dead gorgeous black souls can coexist with their superiors in a manner that you almost second guess because it’s too good to be true.
Many days I think: what if I had not been a descendant of slaves? What if my blood had not been diluted by my great-great-grandmother's master? What if I had grown up in Africa? Then who would I be?
The world, also known as the white world, kind of likes the way I look because the color black is a cool color and it’s chic and hip like the Hip-Hop and R&B you hear spewing from my mouth when I speak. Still, I am despised. Every day I am seen but never heard. Every day I challenge, I am dismissed. Every day I love, I am hated, before they even find out that I like boys—I’m not sorry.
My voice remains imprisoned for crimes I did not commit. No matter the trial, the bigotry that has locked me up stares while I sing. Then those stupid, swimming-pool-blue eyes strip me until I am ass-naked and open for their entering. I must keep my head held high. I must continue to sing.
This past summer I turned 20 years old and as a gift, my boyfriend at the time got me a 23 and Me DNA testing kit. I was grateful—finally I would get to know where in Africa I am from. However, I could not shake his whiteness from this very generous and thoughtful act. He has been to Africa, he has seen my people, he has lived, walked, and talked with my people before I could, before anyone in my entire family could. He, a white man, has brought me ease and clarity in silencing the ambiguity which has haunted my heritage. I’ve always envied him and my other white friends for knowing exactly what, when, where, why and how their ancestors came to America. And now, I too have a place in that conversation.
I am predominantly Sub-Saharan African; the rest of me is mainly British. Makes sense given my last name (Brown) and light skin (also brown). Knowing this hasn’t changed much regarding how I live. When I look in the mirror, I did and still do see a black man, and my family has only ever lived in America for all we know.
Nonetheless, having this information allows me to understand my identity, genes, and culture, has caused me to ponder the “what if?” and has forced me to rethink my presence in the present.
My blackness—or brownness—is relative to my whiteness. Today, I know that my blackness has never been a curse but a gift, and frankly, the best gift I’ve ever received—thank you God, whoever you are. My blackness is my struggle and also my light; my power.
My blackness is a weight which I am in love with. I love myself now, or something like that—and we all know love makes us do crazy things.
Love you, mama. Bye.
By David-Elijah Brown
Art by Martrice Ellis
Body Issue | February 2020