The Day I Found Out I Was Black

You know how they say, “kids don’t see color.” I think they’re right. Well, up to a certain point. I can remember the exact day that I realized I was Black. I often go back to that day and I wonder if other kids can recall the day they noticed they were different. But, more than that I wonder when my daughter will realize she’s Black. I hope that I am the one who can explain to her the beauty of her skin tone. Hopefully, her story is much better than mine.

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I’m nine years old. At that time I lived in Oklahoma. Looking back the majority of my experiences were with white people. How could I not know I was Black?! Anyway, that’s a different story for a different day. Here I am nine years old, short, scrawny, glasses and plaited hair. I was headed to a sleepover with my best friend Jen. Jen and I had met at a church girl’s group. I had been to her house plenty of times before.

Jen’s house was unlike anything I had experienced in my short nine years. Her parents were the directors of our church’s camp. This means Jen and her family lived on the camp with the swimming pools, zip lines, basketball courts, and all the fixings needed for a great summer vacation. I loved it there! What nine-year-old wouldn’t? I had access to summer activities all year long. But, anyway.

I went to Jen’s house like I had done plenty of time before. It consisted of the same routine. During the day we did all the outdoor activities we could handle. In the evening we crowded her family’s luxury log cabin with Barbie dolls and pizza. And somewhere in the middle of the morning, we crashed wherever we could. The next morning, was always my favorite her mom and dad would make us the biggest breakfast. We’d always meet downstairs at their polished wooden table and eat with the entire family and camp staff.

That’s when it happened.

Another seemingly normal sleepover got super awkward. Super quick.

Jen’s little brother who was no more than seven passed me the chocolate milk. As I filled my cup, his little white finger pointed at the chocolate milk and shouted.

“DID YOU DRINK TOO MUCH CHOCOLATE MILK?! IS THAT WHY YOU’RE BROWN?!.”

If I could turn red, I’m sure I would have. The silence was deafening. No one said a thing, not Jen, not her parents, not the staff, and certainly not me. A moment later Jen’s mom shuffled him away from the table. Jen gave a quiet chuckle and nudge. I returned it with a quiet laugh.

But, inside I wasn’t laughing at all. I was trying to grasp how the innocence of chocolate milk shifted into something as complex as race. I was so grateful that my mom picked up me less than an hour later. Great, I was humiliated in front of a group of white people. My mom asked how I was. But, I never told. I was relieved to go home. Back to my Black family and back to people who looked like me.

After all, what do you say? I am Black. Jen’s little brother wasn’t wrong about that. I blamed myself for not noticing it first. I had never cared. At nine years old, Jen’s little brother changed my world. All I could do from then on was compare my dark skin to all the white skin around me.

Chocolate milk. I always think about that day when I see chocolate milk. That day opened my eyes to my differences. And to a world of insecurities, painful realizations, and long-term complexities tied to my race.

That was it. That was the day. I was labeled Black. I carry this label daily. Though I carry it with a lot more pride and awareness now. I am constantly reminded of the skin I wear, but I have learned to love it now. Nonetheless, chocolate milk has never tasted the same.

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This post was previously published on Equality Includes You.

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