My earliest memory of the first time I was confronted with my race happened while I was roller-skating. I was 5 or 6 years old, skating my little heart out. It must’ve been a birthday party. As I was skating solo and minding my own business, a black girl who looked like she was about my age skated up beside me. She smiled and said, “Are you black or are you white?”
I didn’t understand her question. I remember thinking, “What does she mean?”
I quickly looked down and gave myself a once-over, hoping my clothes or my skin would help me formulate an answer. I looked back at her and very uncertainly said, “White,” as if a question mark was at the end of my response.
She stuck her tongue out at me and skated off.
At that moment, my life flashed before me. I knew then and there, even at that young age, that I better get used to that reaction.
Later that day, my family went out to dinner at K&W and I relayed the experience to my parents. And I remember my mom telling me, “No, Courtney, you are black.”
My parents gave me a brief genealogy lesson, explaining that my mother was half black and half white and that my father was black, and all of this meant that I was black, too.
The light in my little head went off and I understood what that girl meant when she asked me if I was black or white.
I was still miffed over the fact that she stuck her tongue out at me.
Light and All Write 