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Undercover Black Woman

Undercover Black Woman* is one of several potential names for my autobiography. It refers to the fact that I look white but identify as black. I say identify because race is not a fact of biology but a construct that varies across cultures, societies and nations.

If race isn't a thing that can be measured and assigned, despite the efforts to do so throughout this country's history, why then does racial identity matter? When I was growing up some white kids would ask me why, since they thought I looked and spoke and acted like I was white why didn't I just call myself white? They didn't understand why I needed to proclaim and explain that I am other.

My great-great-great grandmother, Ellen Craft, was the child of a white slave owner an a slave, as was her mother. Therefore, she was 3/4 "white" and 1/4 "black." However, by the laws of the United States at the time she was legally defined as "black." Those laws no longer exist and so I can now choose my race, my identity. Although I clearly have European ancestors, I identify solely and completely as black.

I choose blackness rather than whiteness for a number of reasons. In part it's because of my family history. In part it's because, though most of my family are fairly light skinned, my father and sisters, along with other family, have brown skin. To proclaim myself white would mean to me "passing" and rejecting my family.

Because I perceive myself as black while people who don't know me treat me as white, I am acutely aware of the privilege whiteness brings. As I wrote in a post a few years ago:

I know this because I benefit from white privilege even though I'm black.  I'm made aware of my privilege every time I go to dinner with friends and I am the only person at the table the waitress will speak to.  I'm made aware of my privilege when I go into shops with family and they are followed and I am not.  I'm made aware of my privilege when white people assume I share their racist thoughts and they spill their secrets to me unaware that I'm working undercover.  I'm made aware of my privilege and thus the corresponding depth of racism every day.

Bearing witness to such behavior only strengthens my identification as black.

I sometimes want to wear T-shirts stating my racial identity. Or perhaps hand out some of Mollena's fabulous race cards (Though Mollena is thoroughly awesome, her link is possibly NSFW) or maybe a calling card like artist Adrian Piper:

Dear Friend,

I am black.

I am sure you did not realize this when you made/laughed at/agreed with that racist remark. In the past, I have attempted to alert white people to my racial identity in advance. Unfortunately, this invariably causes them to react to me as pushy, manipulative, or socially inappropriate. Therefore, my policy is to assume that white people do not make these remarks, even when they believe there are no black people present, and to distribute this card when they do.

I regret any discomfort my presence is causing you, just as I am sure you regret the discomfort your racism is causing me.

There have been some among my ancestors who chose to live as white, who do not have a black identity. However, everyone I grew up with in my immediate and extended family identifies as black to the best of my knowledge. Some of my young relatives might not but just because I think race is less of an issue for younger generations. However, when people over the years have asked me why I don't consider myself white the unspoken subtext is that it would be easier, better. But, while it might be in some ways easier to be white, for me to deny my blackness would mean rejecting my family which would be as painful as cutting off a part of my body.

Living as a racial spy is fascinating and sometimes horrifying. You can imagine some of the things I've heard when people believed that they were talking to a white person. And some of the things that have been said when they learned of my African American heritage. It's hard when I'm the only black person in the room, at a job, on a panel. As many black people can tell you it can be wearying to have to represent all black people and constantly educate even well-meaning non-black folk. I don't always want to be in teacher mode - sometimes I want you to do your own research. And, for me, even when I am happy to be the face of diversity, unless I get a tattoo on my forehead or wear a tee-shirt at all times that says "Yes I am a black woman. Ask me how!" and print the story of Ellen Craft on the back, the impact of the color (pun totally intended) and perspective I bring to settings is lost on anyone who doesn't know my back story. I make for a terrible token.

There are times that I've wished to have browner skin but I have never longed to be a real white girl. Perhaps that's because of the fact that I've escaped most of the overt racism living in brown skin can bring to you in this country. But I hope it's because (say it loud), I'm black and I'm proud.

*I actually coined this name for myself before the late David Mills launched his blog Undercover Black Man. However, if I were going to steal from pay homage to someone, Mills would be at the top of my list. I was a fan of his writing and his blog and in my limited interaction with him he was kind and generous. He died far too young - may he rest in peace.

African American Lives: American History and My Family Tree

Like many, I grew up hearing stories about my family's history. I have a few ancestors whose stories live in history books and who are studied by scholars to this day. There are institutions and organizations named for them. These family stories provide a perfect example of how African American history is American history and another reason why Black History Month still matters.

My great-great-great grandparents, William and Ellen Craft made one of the most daring and inventive escapes from slavery in American history. Ellen, the daughter of a slave and slave owner, was fair skinned. So light, in fact, she could pass for white. She and her husband, William, devised a plan where Ellen would dress as a white man and purchase train tickets for herself and her "slave" (William) to travel north to freedom. Ellen further enhanced her disguise with a sling and face wrap as though she had a toothache so that she would not have to reveal that she could not sign her name (neither Ellen nor William could read or write) or reveal her woman's voice.

When the Fugitive Slave Act passed, their former owners sent slave catchers to Boston to recapture and return them to slavery. Aided by abolitionists, William and Ellen eluded capture, causing the hunters to give up and return home. William and Ellen then went north to Nova Scotia and sailed to England where they lived until slavery was abolished and they returned to the United States. After failing to recapture William and Ellen, their owners petitioned President Millard Fillmore to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act and asked for his assistance in returning them to slavery. Fillmore promised (despite the fact that his faith led him to personally abhor slavery) that he would do everything in his power to enforce the law and even use the military if necessary.

Another President factors into my family history. Thomas Jefferson was a slave owner and Sally Hemmings is the slave most Americans have heard of because of their relationship. One of the descendants of Sally Hemmings' sister, Mary, was activist William Monroe Trotter. Along with W.E.B. Du Bois, Trotter helped establish the Niagara Movement which was a precursor to the NAACP. William Monroe Trotter's sister, Bessie, married Henry Kempton Craft, grandson of William and Ellen Craft. They are my great-grandparents. William Monroe Trotter, the founder of the Boston Guardian newspaper, the first black Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard, was simply my grandmother's "Uncle Monroe."

My grandmother has been interviewed by researchers from Monticello as they acknowledge and incorporate the stories and history of the slaves who lived there and my aunt, uncle and cousins have attended "family reunions" at Jefferson's home. William Monroe Trotter had his own history with presidents in his day. He challenged Theodore Roosevelt and later Woodrow Wilson about the treatment of African Americans. His protests were so forceful that President Wilson banned him from the White House.

As Kim Pearson pointed out in her post on Black History Month and the American Civil War, personal stories connect the past and present and illuminate history in the process. Kim shares the story of Adrien Wing, the great-great granddaughter of Gen. P.G.T. Beauregard. When she visited Beauregard's home in New Orleans, Ms. Wing spoke up when the tour guide failed to mention the whole story:

I will also never forget the guide's face when I told the group that those women on the wall were not the general's only family. He had Black descendants as well, and I was one of them. She blanched and said that she knew that the general was like the other southern gentlemen of his time, but she was not allowed to talk about that. Then she hurried us on to look at the cookbooks.

I'm glad that the caretakers of Monticello and Jefferson's legacy have researched, and now acknowledge and discuss the lives of the slaves who lived alongside Jefferson. History is not created in a vacuum, by individuals acting alone. It happens through our interactions and at the crossroads. Unfortunately, though, in this country, history and accomplishments are too often only made visible or seen when it's through the eyes of white people or embodied in white skin. Black history month gives us the chance to give voice to the too often invisible.

The role of being the first African American to accomplish something notable did not stop with Uncle Monroe. My father was the first African American to earn both a JD and a CPA in California. My grandfather was the first black city councilman in Oakland. My aunt was the first black woman to edit the editorial page of a major American newspaper.

That's three U.S. presidents that my family's lives directly impacted. Three doors my family opened. My family quite literally helped to shape the course of American history. While understandably their stories loom large in my family's hearts and minds, they are just strands in the tapestry that is American history. As long as Black History Month and other events like it help us better understand and add to that tapestry, the stronger and richer it will be.

Cross posted at BlogHer

William Monroe Trotter's sister, Bessie, married Henry Kempton Craft, grandson of William and Ellen Craft. They are my great-grandparents. "Gramps" passed the stories of his grandparents to his daughters, my grandmother and great-aunt. My great-aunt and her daughter were active in the civil right movement. My cousin Peggy carried on William's and Ellen's legacy of civil disobedience and while working as a member of the Student Non Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) on helping blacks in the south securing voting rights she was arrested and spent several weeks in jail. A few years ago I met a minister who was moving to South Africa to continue his human rights work. He had been the pastor of my grandmother's church and had ministered at dome of the funerals of Black Panther members. The minister told me how much he admired my grandmother, who as the relatively comfortable middle class school teacher and wife of a civic and community leader would not be expected to, for attending those funerals.

Bad Lady Plumbing Part 2: Surgery Approaches

Please visit BlogHer.com to read part 2 of my journey, pre-surgery. I'll post part 3, the follow up, here soon.

Thanks for reading and for all the words of wisdom and support you've shared. There are lots of us going through similar issues so I'm glad we are talking about them!

Bad Lady Plumbing: Choosing to End my Childbearing Years

Years ago I made peace with the fact that I would not be a mother. I am not one of those women who never wanted children. At one time I did. However, I have not been willing to compromise my vision of the circumstances under which I wanted to raise a child. I would rather not be a mother than intentionally enter into motherhood single. I didn't meet the father of my child in time. And I'm past the point in my life where I desire to raise an infant. I have tremendous respect for those women who make such choices but these are not the right life choices for me.

Nevertheless, people around me - well meaning, no doubt - feel the need to tell me that I could choose to be artificially inseminated. Several years ago, I spoke to my then gynecologist about my options. She gave me the name of the sperm bank she used and I browsed the online listing of donors. That exercise helped me realize that it was not the right choice for me. I prefer to get knocked up the old fashioned, patriarchal way, i.e by my husband.

The well meaning also helpfully share every news report of senior citizen grandmothers who set records for the oldest woman to give birth. They assure me that it's not to late for me since I'm so much younger.

Helpful hints such as these drive me crazy. I've made my choice and such comments frustrate me and leave me feeling disrespected. I've made up my mind, dammit!

Which is why I'm so surprised to find myself sad and a little bit freaked out by my upcoming surgery to help fix my bad lady plumbing.

The women in my family have a history of heavy monthly bleeding. Some to the point of hemorrhaging so badly that emergency surgery has been necessary. I don't want to get to that point. I've taken birth control pills for years, however, my doctor is no longer comfortable with me continuing this treatment. She's given me several options to try next and I chose preemptive surgery.

It's empowering in one sense. I'm taking control of my body and not waiting until I have no choice in the matter and wind up in the ER.

But, as I sat with a team of doctors discussing my various options I was sad. And part of me has remained sad. We narrowed my options to two different types of uterine ablation (effectively, burning off the lining of my uterus) or hysterectomy (surgically removing it). Regardless of which of these procedures I choose, pregnancy will no longer be an option for me.

Yes, if I change my mind about motherhood I could pursue adoption. If having nurturing, mothering energy in my life feels crucial I can lavish more attention on my niece, nephews and young cousins. I could volunteer to mentor children. Though the experience would not be the same, I can choose. But I still have this voice in my head that is screaming at me to stop and run to the nearest sperm bank. Then I have a little talk with my inner voice and remind her while she might be happy and feel like I was fulfilling some primal womanly desire, that, recognizing the reality of raising a child for many years, my brain is therefore shutting her down.

For now though, I have to choose my surgery. First things first. Afterward I will grieve the loss of my ability to bear children. And then I will continue to live and love.