Who Holds The Scale?

I'm usually pretty careful.

I don't dive into any endeavor without planning or research. I try not to react on impulse. I try to let things marinate and give myself time to really process what's happening.

This particular thought has been sitting on me for a while now.

Who holds the scale of what's "Black enough"?

Not the color, obviously.

NO.

Who gets to decide when a person is Black enough?

As a Black woman, I've worn my heritage proudly for as long as I can remember. As a child, I devoured Black history and the forerunners were cool, but the obscure names and faces were my heroes. I didn't stop at Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks. (I knew Rosa wasn't the first to refuse relinquishing her seat--the first young lady was an unmarried pregnant teen at the time and would not have made a suitable spokesperson for the movement, as it was largely supported by the churches.) I dove headfirst into books about Countee Cullen and George Washington Carver. Every time I connected with another lesser known figure in my history, I felt like I had made a new friend.

Also, I'm dark skinned.

Not medium, baby. Dark. I couldn't find makeup to suit my complexion in high school, dark. Not that I needed it because this skin is hand painted by the universe and drips melanin magic, dark.

NO colorism here--just illustrating a point.

I said all that to kind of paint the picture for you. I'm not culturally confused. I don't have an inferiority complex. I know where I came from, where I am, and where I'm going. This foundation wasn't built in a day or a week--committing myself to learning, loving, and taking pride in who, what, and why I am has been a lifetime of work that I have gladly put in, even before it was popular. I didn't need memes or whichever book/movie/researcher/ideology was most visible (read: most discussed and shared by those who weren't afforded the same foundation) to know I walked a path forged in strength and steeped in a tradition of excellence. I didn't need to find myself as an adult because I didn't lose sight to begin.

Say it loud...

Heavily-melanated, highly educated, usually understated little me, sips and enjoys her blackness the way one savors their chosen coffee brew. The bitter undertones meld with the sweet. Just enough flavoring to add dimension. Dark as I get...

... except where some add milk or a nug of cacao, or nothing at all, I added black tea. A milkless chai, dancing with that black coffee. A flavor combination to either love or not, drink or leave in the carafe for the next. Decidedly not for everyone's cup.

I didn't marry a Black man, because that's not the hand I was dealt.

See, when I petitioned to be made ready for marriage, I underwent a mental, physical, spiritual proofing--I didn't ask to find some man for pictures and hashtag goals, I asked and sought a soul mate to share my joy AND pain.

I guess I forgot to specify his skin tone. Silly me, worrying after things like emotional, financial, and spiritual stability. Accountability. Someone who didn't need the attention of the court because his queen (me, obviously) was more than enough.

So when he stood before me, and later walked beside me, drenched in everything I needed and some things I had NO idea I even wanted, you're damn right I said yes. I would, a million times over. He doesn't complete me--he complements me. He didn't come along to repair anything shattered, he just makes me forget what it ever felt like to be broken in the first place.

As much as my co-wokers would like him to be, he isn't a phase or passing obsession. Nah. He's IT and so am I.

If you read the first bits of this, and your chest swelled with pride to see a Black woman love herself and her roots so fiercely, but deflated and labeled me as a sellout when I got to the part about my husband not being Black...

... you, dear one, suck.

You're the problem.

You projected something onto my life, that I'm not lacking.

The fact that my marriage, the relationship my children will hopefully seek out for themselves, is not a full Black one has left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You imagined for me a king, a man who could support my ambitions and help shoulder the load. As soon as you read how I describe my skin and my love of it, you said to yourself, "This siSTAR is a queen, she deserves herself a specimen of Black man handed down from the universe itself."

You forgot that, save the Blackness, my husband IS that king. Or you chose not to acknowledge it.

Don't get me wrong--I ain't still sleep. I know the world isn't built for me, and it's even less so because I chose to go with love instead of wilting on the vine waiting for my chance at what others find acceptable or proper.

I know the very women who come into my salon, or our store, or even attend extracurricular activities with us and cheer for our kids, measure my Blackness and that of my children every chance they are afforded.

My speech. My hair. My take on current events. My political affiliations. My entire demeanor. My music and book selections. Even my food choices.

Every bit of me is held to a ruler, a color gauge, a litmus paper strip of acceptability.

I know it likely wouldn't be, if my husband's cafe au lait complexion were ebony or mahogany. (Hilariously enough, he is NOT fair skinned...but if judging is why gets people through, we let them have that.)

Perhaps I pass. Perhaps I fail.

Depends on how much you love and know yourself, I suppose. Because I myself am extremely well-rooted in my culture, my faith, my experience, I get nothing out of picking apart the next. I don't need to categorize you because I'm too busy enhancing, empowering, and immersing in my own levels.

I have children, and I have to pass this on to them.

My son's gotta know he's a king of two thrones, with a double river of strength and majesty flowing in his veins. He must realize his kingdom is both unlimited and severely choked, and must figure out how to balance that so it doesn't swallow him in the long run. Those little feet have a long arduous journey and those little shoulders will carry far more than their fair load as he navigates the world on its terms. It will never meet him on his, regardless of where his skin registers on the paper bag scale.

My daughters have to understand and endure the same, with the added deficit (per the world consensus) of being women.

So I don't have the privilege of being ignorant. I have to consciously and purposefully walk every step of every day knowing I won't meet the standard of those judging and tabulating the nuances I don't have the luxury of not being measured by. If I stumble, I have to get back up and step twice as strong next time.

That's cool.

Just don't let it be you, another siSTAR, holding that bag and score card. Don't let it be you, proving the stereotype that Black people, specifically women, can't lift each other up.

And truthfully you needn't feel compelled to lift me! NOT if it isn't your natural inclination. Just DON'T get your hairs crossed to pull me, or any siSTAR, down.