I’m a Black Woman with White Guilt
A consequence of my biracial identity
Talking about race has always been hard for me. Even writing this article was an uphill battle. The process bounced between waves of angry typing about every racist experience I’ve had, followed by bouts of regret for being too quick to assume racist intent. I’ve rewritten it many times, never quite finding the “right” words because, frankly, I don’t know what the right words are. But this story is my best shot at it.
I was born to a White woman from Helena, Montana, and a Black man from the Bahamas. Yes, an unlikely couple. My mother, who raised me as a single parent, is a saint. She wanted to help others, and this desire landed her in a convent in Nassau, Bahamas, teaching children to write and count. She wasn’t a nun — just a humble woman who wanted to make a difference. During that time, she discovered my father, who ultimately chose not to be present in my life. It’s a shame because when the world looks at me, it sees a Black woman. The person best equipped to teach me how to live as a Black person wasn’t around.
It never occurred to me that I had a choice in self-identifying as anything other than Black. Even though my mom is White, along with the only family I know, I was always acutely aware that I was not like them. With thick, curly hair and honey-colored skin…
