Have you seen “Colored Purple”? Did your mom watch Oprah? They don’t know that some of my earliest memories are of sitting in between my mother’s legs as she neatly cornrowed my hair while Auntie O talked in the background.
They don’t know.
I had a Jheri curl. I watched “Coming to America” at the drive-in with my “I’ve got Indian in my family” Granny. I had plates of greens made with turkey necks at the family reunions.
They don’t know.
I want to scream while I frantically search for my black card. A card that has a lot of wear and tears from so many searches. A card that has been punched by hot-comb scar, graduation from an HBCU, father’s last name is Brown.
A Black Card that traces all the way back to South Carolina. A Black card that has the prejudice section punched.
In that split second while I’m looking or the card, getting nervous that I’m not going to find it in time, my hand touches something and I’m so eager to show it that I pull it out without looking. And they say humph, that’s what I thought and walk away. Then I slowly turn the card around to see its face and immediately realize my mistake, I showed them my Muslim card.
But they should have known, right.
