Tell Us How Old You Were the First Time You Realized Your Race?

And what did you think about it at that time?

I always knew I was a beautiful brown color as were most of the people around me as a child. There were a few who weren’t brown like me, but they were family and friends and I never thought of them or myself as being light, dark or anything else. We all just were. So, while I don’t think I realized I had a “race” at that time, I did know people’s skin came in different shades.

How I Came to Discover My Blackness

When I was around three or four years old, I found out I was Black. My parents were recently divorced and my mom and I were living in an apartment in Los Angeles. Two teen sisters lived in our building and both thought I was the cutest kid in the world. When we’d pass them outside of our apartment, they always stopped to talk to me, play with me and smother me with kisses. If my mom was carrying groceries in the house, they were happy to keep an eye on me as she did so. I should say this was in the 1960s and so times and teenagers were different.

One day, my mom had a few errands to run and asked the sisters if they could babysit, which they were happy to do. I literally remember one of them swooping me into her arms and proudly carrying me into their apartment where I met their mom and dad. Mom was totally cool with her daughters babysitting me. Dad was a different story.

I don’t recall the exact words he used, but I know he wanted me out of his house and I know he made reference to my color being the reason. Both girls and their mother were upset by his reaction to me and I recall angry words being passed between the four of them. The dad was unrelenting, though, and said I had to get out of his house. The girls told him they couldn’t take me home because my mom wasn’t back yet. They must’ve given him a time for her return because I distinctly recall him turning the hands on a clock they had on their kitchen wall before telling them and me that it was time for me to go. The girls took me outside to wait for my mom at that point.

I really don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I do recall being confused by the angry and defensive attention my presence aroused. I also vaguely recall the girls’ mother being very protective of me and trying to shield me from her husband’s anger. I don’t recall being afraid, just confused. I was a smart, adorable little girl with good manners and I’d never met a person who didn’t like me before that day. The things he was saying about my color didn’t hurt, they just didn’t register.

I never said anything to my mom about it probably because I was only three or four and really didn’t know what’d happened. It wasn’t something I could’ve put into words at that time even if I’d understood any of it. But this was undoubtedly the first time I realized I was this thing called Black and that it was something mean and angry people didn’t like.

Prepare Children Early

When I hear people talk about indoctrinating kids with race at a young age, I always think about kids being assigned race at birth, as well as my own experience in learning what my assignment meant. There were plenty more childhood incidents after this one — and I had a whole new set of experiences while raising my Black son — but this one stands out in my mind as the very first for me. Thankfully, my family had already instilled in me that I was valuable, loved, pretty, special and all of those good things before a grown White man came along to try to make me feel like I wasn’t any of these things. And this is what I try to explain to White people anytime one of them makes the argument that we don’t need to talk to kids about race.

While I don’t recall anyone in my family sitting me down and directly pointing out that I was Black, I was always surrounded by good old fashioned Blackness and so it wasn’t something foreign to me by the time I was met with a raging racist. I’d been raised dancing to, “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud” blaring through stereo speakers on Saturday mornings. My mom kept an oversized Black power fist on our coffee table next to Black magazines, my family always had Black art on our walls and Black books filled our bookcases. I didn’t know it then, but I was firmly rooted in Blackness and with the self-esteem sown into me at such a tender age, I never even thought about internalizing the mean things that White man said about me and people like me.

Had I not been prepared… as so many children aren’t… that one incident could’ve planted the wrong seeds in my mind and I may not have the racial pride I do today. I am so glad my family wasn’t shy about proclaiming Blackness and that I was trained to wear mine as a badge of honor. In doing so, the first time I found out I was Black, I also found out that some White people were just too stupid to realize just how beautiful Black people are.

Why I’m Writing This and What You Should Do Next

This story was inspired by reading ‘Tine Zekis’ story: “I Think I’m Gray: My racial identity development as a biracial child”. I’d like to thank her for sharing her first.

To all of you reading this, when did you first realize your race? Of course, I’m always interested in Black stories, but I’m interested in all others, too. Feel free to share in the comments or, better yet, write about it under your own profile and come back here and link to it in the comments so we all can check it out.

Thanks to everyone for reading and here are a few more stories you may enjoy: