WHITE-WASHED

April 2019

My grandma looks at me with pain in her eyes everytime I straighten my hair,

my skin is the lightest of the family,

and she never fails to remind me that.

She accuses me of being white-washed,

of not being black enough,

of being embarrassed of my heritage.

Like if denying my curls for a night out has anything to do with the fact that

i don’t belong anywhere.

As she troubles getting the gender of things right in spanish,

I think about how people look at me in disbelief as I proclaim

I am her granddaughter,

the man packing our groceries says

grandata? bat miss, lupan her skin! she wait!

he is secure in his words,

he would bet his life that I cannot say a word in my mother tongue.

That afternoon my grandma learnt that i could say more swear words in kriol that she could ever say herself,

she will never admit how proud she felt.

My cousins and I sit in the dining room as they discuss if it would be ok for me to use the n-word.

I sit in the spot that used to be my mom’s and my darker skinned uncle looks at me about to laugh,

I know he thinks i’ll never fill her place,

and i have never intended to,

but i’m sick to my stomach to feel like a stranger in my own house,

with my own blood.

I’ve been asked if I am adopted more times that I can count,

“nat aluon” says my grandma looking at me in the eyes

as she tells these tourists how I recently found a study that says depression in black and jewish descendants might have something to do with the large amount of suffering they handled.

I know what she means when she ends her speech with that while gazing at me,

she means to tell me that I am not alone in my struggle,

that the deep pain i’ve been carrying for twelve years isn’t my fault,

that my depression is a proof that her black blood runs in my veins,

and sadly, the part of me that makes me hate myself the most is the one that validates to her that I am black.

I come home with a big sunburn in my back,

I fell asleep in the sun without sunblock because everytime I go home I try to get my skin as dark as possible,

so that for a few weeks I can feel like I might belong,

so that maybe this time nobody can spot me in the family picture right away,

with box braids and a nose-ring, wearing a scarf around my head in a bright color that in any other circumstances I would ever consent to wear.

Grandma finally smiles at me,

tells me I look african enough,

tells me that her grandfather didn’t fight in vain for our rights,

yes, she says “our”.

and kisses me in the forehead because I look just like my mama,

before she was white washed too.