Who has jurisdiction over Blackness? Who gets to determine who is and isn’t Black, and why? And what is it based on? Is it phenotype — complexion, hair texture, lips, eyes, your nose? Is it who you hang out with? Is it how you dress, or where you went to school? Is it where you’re from or how you talk? Is it your name? Is it what you eat or where you worship? Who gets to make that decision? Who is in charge of validating a person’s “Black card”?
This Black History Month, I want to opine about something controversial, something I rarely hear discussed in polite company — but it is definitely discussed or at least internalized in our community. The hierarchy is divisive, and that’s the point.
Everywhere I go, every time I enter new spaces, most recently at Penn, I’m met with the dreaded interrogation. It typically goes something like this: “Are you mixed? ... One of your parents is white, right? ... If you’re Black, where did those eyes come from?” Or, I’m met with declarations like “There’s no way you’re just Black.”
Like clockwork, I can depend on some version of this inquiry to bury the lede: “What are you?”
The casual conversation about my appearance belies the faux (or maybe real) exoticism playing out. While I won’t call the comments I face colorism, I will call them a form of alienation, prejudice, or projection.
Why am I offended when someone asks if I am mixed? Because I don’t live the life of someone who is.
The question reveals a lack of understanding of American history. For the record, I am a descendent of enslaved Africans in America on both sides of my family tree — full stop. On one hand, I can trace my lineage to 17th century England and Wales, while at the same time, I’m only four generations removed from American chattel slavery — that’s right, my grandfather’s grandmother was enslaved in North Carolina.
These are simply facts that don’t negate my lived experience; they add context and meaning. So much of our history has been erased or forgotten. So when I tell you I’m Black, believe me, respect me, and ask yourself why you think you have the authority to challenge my identity.
As Black people in this country, whether acknowledged or not, we see proximity to whiteness as positive, though it’s a residual effect of colonization. Although on the surface it might look like a privilege, this dehumanizing obsession with proximity to whiteness is a double-edged sword. For example, popular music created by Black musicians perpetuates a fetishization of light-skinned Black women. In Pop Smokes’ song “Hello,” he has a recurring line in which he states, “I like my bitches redbone, ass fat, Jell-O / Light skin, yellow, iced out, hello.” Or, in “Redbone,” Childish Gambino paints light-skinned women as untrustworthy or scandalous. While both songs perpetuate a caricature of the desired light-skinned woman, they are reductive and coated in racialized misogyny. So, while it looks like a privilege (and don’t get me wrong, I understand how it is), it comes at a cost.
At Penn, where diversity is a celebrated yet complicated reality, Black students come from all walks of life — different socioeconomic backgrounds, different regions, and different relationships with their Black identity. Some have attended predominantly white schools all their lives, while others have been shaped by historically Black communities. Yet even here, within a space that should foster understanding, the threat of colorism and identity politics persist.
As a community, we are so closely gatekeeping what it means to be Black, who is and is not Black, and why some people feel they have the jurisdiction to decide that for others. Because of my light skin and light eyes, features that many others have almost fixated on, I am often mistaken as mixed race; specifically, that my parents are from two different backgrounds. However, that is not the case: My parents are both Black, my grandparents are Black, my family is Black, and I am Black. And no, there isn’t an “and” to follow. So, when I tell people I am not mixed, they often look at me as if I’ve said something in a foreign language — they are genuinely confused. Often, within the community, light-skinned Black people are treated as if they are something other than Black.
So, why can’t I be Black? It’s because we refuse to accept that the United States is a melting pot, not just in the sense of immigration, but in the way generations of people have been shaped by an amalgamation of cultures, histories, and ethnicities. So on one hand, of course I am “technically” mixed, and likely, you are too. I mean, unless you are from some isolated, faraway region of the world or part of a closed society along with your entire lineage, are you not a little mixed with something?
So, what’s the calculus of Blackness? As a Black community, what do we gain from keeping ourselves concerned with color? What do we gain from devaluing someone’s cultural experiences and expression because of their shade? Further, we must acknowledge the difference between racial/ethnic identity and culture and lived experiences — it’s not simply a genealogy test.
At Penn, Black identity is already underrepresented. We should be expanding the conversation, embracing our complexity, and challenging the internalized biases that keep us divided. If Blackness is about shared struggle, resilience, and culture, then why do we fixate on arbitrary markers?
This Black History Month, I challenge us all to rethink the calculus of Blackness. Not to erase identity, but to recognize its depth, its history, and its undeniable presence in all of us who claim it. My Blackness doesn’t require an explanation; I am who I am.
MARIE DILLARD is a College first year studying history and urban studies from Englewood, N.J. Her email is mdilla@sas.upenn.edu.
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