ChoosingaBlackmomwasharder.I sawveryfew,if any,
womenwithskinthecolorofmahoganyinthosemagazines.
Andif I did,nonewereassophisticatedorregalasmymom.
Shewokeupeverymorningat5amtogetdressedtothenines
forher deskjob,wearingsilkyblouses withstrong shoulder
pads,high-waistedpencil skirts and heels with black tights.
I couldn’tfindheranywhereinthosepages.
Inthepaperdepictionofmylife,I castherasabrunette
soccer-momtypeinstead.It wasjust... easier.I decidedtobe
ablondgirlwith longpigtails.Andjustwhenthings started
gettingreallyfun,asI wasdecidingwhichfreckledlittleboy
wouldbemybrother,oneoftheteacher’saidesinterrupted
me.Thejigwasup.Theadultsintheroomseemedconcerned.
I feltlikeI hadbeencaughtdoingsomethingwrong.
TheTAslylypulledoutthesoleBlackmagazineI hadn’t
touched and pointed to a Black girl inside. “Ohhh, she’s
pretty!”shesaidinthatartificiallyhigh-pitchedtoneadultsuse
whencooingatbabies.ThensheflippedtoanotherBlackgirl
wholookednothinglikeme.“Oh,whatabouther?Shereminds
mesomuchofyou.Herhairisjust like yours.” She laughed
awkwardly.I froze,ashamed.
I gotthemessage:I wassupposedtobecuttingoutbrown
people,butit allfeltmorecomplicatedthanthat.I lovedmy
familyjustastheywere–don’tgetmewrong–butadding
a Black mom, a Black brother, a Black me to this White
paperfamilyI wasconstructingwouldhavemeanthavingto
ownthatI wasnotliketherestofmyclassmates.AndI really
didn’twantthat.I wantedtobelong.And to me, belonging
meantblendingintomyenvironment.
I know now that the teacher was trying to giveme an
out.TopointmeinthedirectionofwhoI reallywas.Butthe
more she cooed and pointed at Black people, the more
singled out I felt. It’s like somehow my baby brain had
already absorbed too much of the whitewashing in those
pages to retreat now. So, I straight up ignored the poor
womanandcontinuedcollaging my way into this temporary
delusionofWhiteness.
Bigmistake.
WhenI camehomewithmyWhitepaperfamily,it wasasif
mymomhadbeenreadyingherselfmywholelife for this very
momentofreckoning:it wastimetohavethe
RaceConversation.Shewasacutelyaware
ofhowtheworldcouldmakelittleBlackgirls
feelinvisible.Andshewasn’thavinganyof
that,notinherhouse.Nothergirl.Thatwas
whenshepulledouttheassignmentI’djust
completedatschoolandlaunchedintoa full-
blowninterventionthatcontaineda string of
herfamouslycheesyone-liners:
“Houston,wehavea problem!”
“Oh,no,shedidn’t!”
“Homie, don’t play that!”“Wearegoingtoredothis,Lainey,”shefinallysaidtome,in
agentlebutserioustone.“ThistimeMommy’sgoingtohelp
you,okay?”Shewasn’tangryorevendisappointed.Thiswas
alovingintervention.Anearlycoursecorrection,redirectingme
tomyownBlacknessina worldthatcanmakeit hardtoembrace.
ThenextthingI knew,mybrotherandI weresittingattheoak
woodtableinourdiningroomrummagingthroughastackof
magazinesfilledwithBlackpeople.InthepagesofEbonyand
Essence, therewasnoescapingBlacknessif wetried.Thinking
back on it now, it all seems like some sortof satiric Dave
ChappellesketchonhowtoraiseBlackkidsinWhiteAmerica.
Ericwasvisiblyannoyedthathehadsomehowgottenroped
into this thinly veiled race exercise turned “arts-and-crafts”
project.Hehadbetterthingstodoatsixyearsold.Butwhen
hesomuchasattemptedtosquirmoutofhisseat,mymom
shot himthe Lookandsaid,“Boy,do you value your life?”
Thiswasnevernota rhetoricalquestion.
WithMomasourspiritguide,thisfamilyprojectwasactually
sortoffun.Thecaramel-complectedbrother-sisterduoI picked
torepresentEricandElaineinmynewfamilycollagecamefrom
a syrupadvertisement.Theylookedhappyandmischievous,just
likeus.I selecteda slim,fashionableBlackwomanwithdramatic
eyeshadowandaperfectColgatesmiletobemymom.She
graciouslyallowedmetokeepmysuit-and-tiedad,eventhough
hewasasfictitiousastheblondversionoflittleElaine.
Whenmymom finishedadmiringthis reimagined– and
muchmorerealistic–familycollage,shemademetapeit to
thewallrightnexttomybed.Evenif mainstreammediadidn’t
reflectme,shewanted metoseemyBlackness.Everyday.
So,forthenextfiveyears, theseimageswerethe firstthing
I saweverymorningandthelastthingI saweverynight.She
was serious about dismantling any misguided notions that
I was or could ever be White. But more than anything,
she wanted metosee prideinmy Blackness. And she did
everythinginherpowertomakesureI did.
Aspartofthispractice,mymomrefusedtobuymeWhite
dolls.I triedtoignorethetightnessinmybellywhenevermy
Whitefriendscameoverandweresubsequentlyforcedtoplay
with only Black dolls.Instead ofKen, the malecounterpart
to Barbie, we had to sneak into my brother’s room to borrow96
MEMOIR
“SHE WAS AWARE of how
the WORLD COULD MAKE
LITTLE BL ACK GIRLS feel
INVISIBLE. AND SHE wasn’t
having ANY OF THAT”