I looked at her as though I had never met her before. Her words stung my ears and momentarily silenced me.
I examined her face and noted her full lips, broad, wide, nose, and her relaxed yet, thick hair.
Her skin was deep with a hint of milk chocolate tones yet, she had just told me that she didn’t believe her ancestors were black or from the continent of Africa.
I didn’t bother to ask her how she thought her island born parents made it there. I didn’t bother to tell her about the number of slaves who were taken to the Carribbean and South America. I didn’t even tell her that I knew more about her parents birth place than she did.
I didn’t tell her that those same parents had failed her and that somehow the white picket fence in front of her childhood home had also fenced in her mind.
I didn’t tell her she looked like the sistas I admired in Ghana. I didn’t even mention that her course and coily hair was still evident no matter how long she allowed the relaxer to process.
I didn’t mention how it was hardly possible for her ancestors to be European. And that even if mixing occurred in her bloodline, those black genes took over when she was created.
I didn’t tell her that she would never pass a brown paper bag test or be taken seriously if she checked European or white on job applications.
European? Bish where ?
I didn’t say even 10% of what I thought because I felt sorry for her. The brown girl, who when it comes to her own culture, actually knows nothing at all.
I should have mentioned “The Bluest Eye” but she would not have understood. Afterall, Kim Kardishian is to her what Zora or Nina Simone are to me.
So I finished my wine and smirked a little . I accepted the fact that we were on two very different paths-two very different vibrations and I didn’t need her frequency interfering with mine.
But I pity that brown girl.