I spent four years as a news and features reporter for The Chronicle, which is Winston-Salem’s African-American community newspaper. To say this job was a learning experience is an understatement. I had the opportunity to speak to so many extraordinary people – both famous and not so famous.

The staff was very small, less than 15 people. Ms. Paulette is the receptionist, and she epitomizes grace, kindness and friendliness.

One day Ms. Paulette mentioned how people would frequently call our office and ask to speak to “the white girl who writes for the paper.” Well, there was no white girl who wrote for the paper. There was an older white woman who worked as a graphic artist. And I was one of three reporters on the staff. So that narrowed it down – to me. We shared a good laugh and Ms. Paulette explained how she’d respond by saying, “You must be talking about Courtney.”

I wasn’t surprised to learn that people thought I was white. Oftentimes I’d arrive somewhere to cover an event, and I’d introduce myself as a reporter for The Chronicle. Two things would usually happen: Someone would ask me if I was a reporter for The Winston-Salem Journal, the city’s daily paper. Or someone would introduce me to someone else as a reporter for The Winston-Salem Journal, even though I’d already told them I worked for The Chronicle.

Three years into my gig for The Chronicle, my editor, T. Kevin Walker, sat me down and assigned me a story – about myself. And I panicked. I didn’t sign up to report about myself! I was there to disseminate news about fraudulent voting machines, playground restorations, food drives and civil rights activists!

No, he told me, you should write about your experience as a black woman and find some local people who’ve had similar life experiences.

“I think it’d make a really good story,” he told me.

I wanted to throw up. I prepared myself to receive hate mail. Race and skin color are contentious issues in this country. And I was assigned the task to write about it – from my own perspective. I thought, who wants to read about me? How could I ask someone to open up to me when I wasn’t comfortable opening up about myself? I didn’t know where to begin.

So I scoured my Rolodex and called some contacts and people I knew for suggestions about light-skinned black people who’d be willing to share their life story.

A friend suggested I interview someone she knew. My editor came across a teenager working at Kmart and a retired teacher who was active in the community. And the last person selected for the series was a local television news anchor.

Each of them was very candid about their lives and experiences with racism from whites and blacks, sharing anecdotes and pictures from their photo albums. It was therapeutic to hear them talk about being ostracized and facing social challenges because they don’t “look black.” I listened, laughed and cried with each of them. Although we did not grow up on the same street or in the same city, we share an undeniable bond that runs deeper than our skin color.

Over the course of the month that I wrote the series, I spent many sleepless nights tossing, turning and panicking about the stories. I lay awake worrying about how the stories would be perceived and received. I didn’t want sympathy or to be accused of whining. While I always tried to report fair and balanced stories, thanks to my editor who kept me on track, this topic was different. It was personal. And I didn’t want to disappoint my editor, my family and most importantly, any of the women who agreed and trusted me to tell their stories.

I started off the series with a personal narrative. It ran on the front page of the newspaper and above it was a picture of my parents, my sister and myself. I remember driving by newsstands around town and seeing our faces staring back at me. I couldn’t believe it. It was the hardest thing I’d ever written.

I thought, okay, it’s done. People are going to react. So man up and get ready.

The feedback was overwhelmingly positive. I received hand-written letters, e-mails and phone calls from so many readers, black and white. People I knew as well as strangers stopped me on the street saying, “I read your story in The Chronicle!” I found out that many people I knew didn’t know I was black. Several people admitted that they never knew people who look like me had any problems with racism.

Out of the hundreds of stories I wrote, it is the one I am most proud of. Because it gave people something to think about and it opened up a new dialogue about race. It gave this community some insight into what’s it’s like being black like me.