“No,” Is a Complete Sentence.

“Don’t you want to use brown?”

I grew up confident about what I perceived to be a no brainer assertion: Black people aren’t really black.

I mean, the color black is striking and captivating especially when measured up against a starry night, gold hardware, a coconut colored area rug, or itself; but, Blackness is not easily describable in the context of a black crayon.

I recall learning when I was Black. My parents taught me about my Blackness without hesitation. I beamed with pride and a sense of belonging because I came from a Black neighborhood with beautiful Black people. I had Black experiences that the double dutch ropes, papi stores, and the plastic cover of my godmother’s loveseat told better than me, but I never saw my Blackness in the context of someone else’e Whiteness.

I was a fifth grade student in a pool of White friends including one tall, robust classmate named *Star. (Don’t worry about her real name.) We were playing outside for recess and a mutual friend wanted me to tag along. I saw no error in her invitation so I obliged and happily skipped to where she was originally playing with her group of friends. Star was amongst them and I thought nothing much of her because she and I never had any negative encounters. I thought her tendency to incessantly blink through her bushy brown bang was some sort of strange way to address her insecurity in being the tallest girl in our fifth grade class, but I chalked it to the reality that we all come with something to work through. I just didn’t expect to work though my ‘something’ that day. She saw me join them in playing and started to give me an uninspired, cold shoulder.

“Why are you over here?”

“I was asked to play over here. Is there a problem?”

Our mutual friend froze and nervously folded her dusty blonde hair behind her ears.

“You’re not welcome over here.”

“Apparently, you’re the only one confused about who is welcome here.”

“Why don’t you go back to Africa then?” she bellowed over the growing hush of students.

I did not understand what she was initially implying and I was overthinking faster than my lips could follow so I remained mute until the lightbulb came on. It’s when I put “two and two” together.

Did she just tell me to go back to Africa? But, I’m from New York. OHHHHH! Is she calling me a ni**** without calling me a ni*****?

I glared at her in silence. She sat into her right hip and stared back, blinking the curtain of her bangs open. The faces of students in proximity were tomatoes. I looked to the left of me and noticed a lightly rusted folding chair. I was so enraged that the swift grab, fold, and molly whop of the chair across her head and upper torso happened faster than somebody ordering four chicken wings with salt, peppa, ketchup, and hot sauce. The dart of her words turned my Black self red.

I was no longer the sweet, smart, Black girl. I became the sweet, smart Black girl that nobody better mess with. They learned that my kindness was not meant to be taken for weakness, but I knew that hitting her, albeit justifiable in my head, was dangerous.

It’s possible I saw this danger play out in my daughter’s picture not knowing that she was only coloring me how she saw me: her Black momma.

“Muppet, why did you paint me black?”

“Because Mommy, that’s what we are. Black.”

“But, my skin isn’t black. Don’t you want to paint me brown?”

“I like black.”

“But, my skin is brown. Like yours.”

“I want to paint you black.”

“But, don’t you want to paint me brown?”

“No!” she yelled in frustration.

I wasn’t even mad at her. I understood the argument between her perception of me against my history of being a Black girl colored brown who turned red. It’s easy to hide under a pile of gut wrenching experiences without ever exchanging the heap for God’s healing from whatever caused them in the first place. I didn’t want her to think her “No!” was insignificant yet I wanted her to see that maybe black wasn’t the best choice for Mommy’s skin; in truth, what I thought didn’t matter. My perception was my reality, but faith doesn’t excuse our reality. It changes it. I scooped up my insecurity and uncertainty and placed it before God with the hope that I would not have to barter too greatly for something that I didn’t ask for in the first place. While I didn’t choose my brown skin or my Blackness, I did however chose to live out this life with whatever came with it because as long as He is in stride with me, then it doesn’t matter what color she chooses to paint me. It doesn’t matter if I were black or blue. I’m not defined by one brush stroke but maybe living by faith is permission to accept that I am part of God’s intentional canvas and it isn’t my job to discredit how perfectly He painted me.

She was on to something.

And a child shall lead them…