This was distinct from the kind of rage that grew in me when I stood next to my sister and observed white people gazing at us, often directly questioning our bloodline. As a girl, I felt helpless when I witnessed certain colour-struck Black adults who, unconsciously or deliberately, compared my lighter skin to my sister’s dark tone. She knew she’d get much worse from my mother if I were to say why I – an obedient, bookish and dreamy child – had done such a thing.įor years, I had listened to teachers, strangers and even relatives comment on my sister’s deep, rich complexion.
We both knew she wasn’t going to tell her mother I’d hit her because she’d be in trouble for what she’d said. It was how she said it: “Your sister is Blaccckkkkk.” Before she even got to the K, I watched my hand fly across her face. The girl who called my sister Black was Black, as am I. The violence in me had been growing for some years. When I hit her, I knew it had nearly nothing to do with her.
The girl was the daughter of one of my mother’s girlfriends who often stayed at our home while our mothers ran errands. I remember the first time I slapped someone for calling my sister Black.
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