My turn
My turn: I like my coffee extra African-American
By Dale Bradby
Eng 101 I've heard people describe my skin color as caramel and my eyes as hazelnut is if I'm some kind of creamer. I claim that I'm 100% African-American, even though I've never known anybody from Africa including my great-grandfather, who was of the Pamonkey native-American tribe. Its common in the black community to hear someone say "I got Indian in me!" and then someone else to smack their lips and respond "Nigga you blacker than black!" or something to that effect. So, as a light-skinned-bright-eyed-African-American with an Indian last name and a first name common to Caucasians, I was VERY confused. I didn't know if I should wear feathers and sleep with dream-catchers, sag my jeans below my waist while pumping my fist, or enunciate clearly and wear open-toed sandals. I joke about it now but this distortion in identity caused me to loathe everybody from Adam to my father. I often questioned: why were my white ancestors so evil, why were my black ancestors so dumb, and why don't the long haired Bradbys associate with the frizzy haired Bradbys? My skin became a curse to me, and like those sugar coated coffee creamers, I began to cover the richness of my heritage with blissful ignorance. I decided the history of the Bradbys was too bitter to shallow and shunned everyone outside my immediate family. Therefore, the only flavor of existence I couldn't drown out was my slave heritage. My family recognized black history month, attended a "Nation of Islam" mosque, a "holy ghost catching" church, and wore the wool-like mane unique to "black folk". It was obvious I was black, however, I was never called such. I have "black", but not of the main stream tribe that was "in-style". I was a "high yellow heifer", a "malodo", and a "house nigga". Its hurtful when your own people put you in a outcast category that very few are apart of. I felt like some kind of mutant, so i would often sit outside on
By Dale Bradby
Eng 101 I've heard people describe my skin color as caramel and my eyes as hazelnut is if I'm some kind of creamer. I claim that I'm 100% African-American, even though I've never known anybody from Africa including my great-grandfather, who was of the Pamonkey native-American tribe. Its common in the black community to hear someone say "I got Indian in me!" and then someone else to smack their lips and respond "Nigga you blacker than black!" or something to that effect. So, as a light-skinned-bright-eyed-African-American with an Indian last name and a first name common to Caucasians, I was VERY confused. I didn't know if I should wear feathers and sleep with dream-catchers, sag my jeans below my waist while pumping my fist, or enunciate clearly and wear open-toed sandals. I joke about it now but this distortion in identity caused me to loathe everybody from Adam to my father. I often questioned: why were my white ancestors so evil, why were my black ancestors so dumb, and why don't the long haired Bradbys associate with the frizzy haired Bradbys? My skin became a curse to me, and like those sugar coated coffee creamers, I began to cover the richness of my heritage with blissful ignorance. I decided the history of the Bradbys was too bitter to shallow and shunned everyone outside my immediate family. Therefore, the only flavor of existence I couldn't drown out was my slave heritage. My family recognized black history month, attended a "Nation of Islam" mosque, a "holy ghost catching" church, and wore the wool-like mane unique to "black folk". It was obvious I was black, however, I was never called such. I have "black", but not of the main stream tribe that was "in-style". I was a "high yellow heifer", a "malodo", and a "house nigga". Its hurtful when your own people put you in a outcast category that very few are apart of. I felt like some kind of mutant, so i would often sit outside on