not black... not Black, either

Ok, I am going to come right out and say it.

I, dear friends, am not Black. In fact, I am not black either.

(Note: the "dear friends" invocation will have perhaps been rejected by now, but read on)

Blasphemy, you say.... Ignorance, Backwardness, Blindness to the realities of life, the height of political incorrectness.

I have been in the US for at least 12 years, so I know what I am saying. I know this society sees me as black AND assumes I am Black.

You see, this is the thing. I am not a color, the small "b".

I flew in straight from Addis to a historically black college, whose very existence says so much about the meaning of skin color in this society. Students who had rejected offers by Brown, MIT or other ivy encrusted institution were far from rare. The whole place was full of students and faculty in many ways exhilarated in finding a spiritual space where, for once, color could be at least neutralized as the basis for many of the decisions others make on/to/for/against them.

Not to say the place was color-neutral. The pursuit of the billion answers to the million question on what it means to be someone of a dark skin tone in America were central to campus events, life and scholarship, as opposed to a supplementary or extra-curricular or even a "fringe" role such pursuits would be relegated to in the mainstream colleges in the country.

Much as I may try to fool myself that where I am today is because of my personal achievement, I can never forget that the laws in this country put in place to counter color based discrimination allow me to work, to learn, to live, to pursue whatever and wherever I want. And those laws were the result of the intellectual work of the many people who did pursue such questions, and even the death and deprivation of many, many others whose skin tones match mine.

But I am not black, the small "b" of universal skin tones. Neither am I white. Nor pink. My skin color exists on a dynamic continuum of light to dark brown, depending on how much sun I have had the pleasure of absorbing that day/week/... My skin hue is not what or who I am. Nor, if you get right down to it, the kinkiness of my hair, or the shape of my nose.

Denial? No - I call it rejection. Not rejection of who I am, but of being labeled and bundled as simply a color.

I am not Black either, the big "B" of the incredibly dynamic cultural universe nurtured and brought to global dominance by Americans whose skin tones match mine. Don’t get me wrong - I love most of it. Jazz & Blues, R & B. The drama and swagger of NFL and NBA athletes. The boisterously unrestrained revelling in earthy humor. The equally exuberant participation of the "audience" in any public event, be it cinema or sermon. The eternal pursuit of style, sometimes flamboyant, sometimes restrained but always there.

I was exposed to much of the "Black" culture at the college I went to. Spike Lee movie premieres and evenings featuring past and present Panthers and Black nationalist speakers were campus wide events. University radio gently wakes you up to gospel music, then easing you on to blues, rap, and jazz etc... The classical music one heard were the occasional wafting of piano or strings from the bowel of the huge arts building. Most of the time, this was dueled to a distinctly second position by the joyful holler of the marching band’s brass. The stomps and yells of the many new Greek recruits practicing their steps somehow nicely complemented the instruments.

Faculty ran the gamut from radical "Afrikan" nationalists all too happy to expand the transcontinental united liberation of all people of African descent , to your regular xenophobes who looked with undisguised distaste and disgust at africans/foreigners with the accent and style just unfashionably broadcasting their otherness.

But the universe that defines my identity is more than that. It includes the "thtna" and shame in self-promotion I was taught as a child. It has the intense connection with history as probably the most defining pillar of the Ethiopian identity. It includes the pleasure in humor based on word-smithing and witticism. And yes, the aching bluesiness of tizita, a piece of musical creation that never fails to throw the listener into that familiar, somewhat sad place in the heart. And never without the eternally present conviction that we could be much, much better if only...

Who I am includes the literature of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the poetry of Rumi, the chants of Tibetan monks. Or someone who guiltily spends too unconscionably many hours downloading Didgeridoo MP3s. Someone who finds endless fascination in the political news of the world, whether it is the latest escapades of George Speight in Fiji or Peru’s Alejandro Toledo. I am also one who admits to the distinctly "bourgie" pleasures of bohemian coffee shops, where I pay too ridiculously much for a "coffee and something" concoction with an Italian sounding name. Come October, you can catch me travelling for hours just for the chance to enjoy the blazing reds, and bright yellows of leaves quickly leaving their trees in a final burst of glory.

So ultimately this boils down to labels. My identity, the sum total of what I believe defines me and my relationship to the universe, is intensely personal, and I refuse to have it limited to a label. My skin tone is a biological fact, of which I am neither proud nor ashamed, since I did nothing to be that way.

If you need to call me something, call me by my name.

Please.