originally known as Come as you are
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In less than recent news, actress Raven-Symoné was a guest on “Oprah: Where Are They Now?” During the interview, Oprah began an open dialog regarding Symoné’s announcement that she was in a healthy relationship with a woman. She told Winfrey that she did not want to be labeled as “gay” but as a “human that loves humans.”Then Symoné continued by saying, “I’m tired of being labeled. I’m an American. I’m not an African American; I’m an American.
Oprah warned Symoné not to set Twitter on fire for making such a bold, and later seen to some as blasphemous, comment regarding being African American. Meanwhile my Facebook feed was up in arms. My virtual friends began shaming this praised childhood star, claiming that she was disowning her own race and history. And while I respectfully read and then unfollowed a number of these posts, I could not contain my joy for someone brave enough to voice something I have been feeling for so long. I hate being African American. I have never been to Africa. I have never met a relative who has been to Africa. And among the long list of last names associated with my lineage, not one, in the slightest bit, resembles a surname from Africa. Now, I know a number of reasons why this is true. No one can deny the harsh reality of history. But in no part of my life have I been raised as African. When I am described to someone as African American, the term offends me. I cannot help but feel that once again in my life, someone is telling me who I am. Why do we use the term African American, when describing people, their parents, and their parents’ parents who have lived in the United States their entire lives? Why don’t we use the term European American for people who have lineage in Europe, but were born in the U.S.? When someone says I am African American, they are assuming that I have relatives in Africa who I know, visit and send Christmas cards to. Or, at least that should be what they are alluding to. You see, aside from what is public forum, I do not have the privilege to know my African history, (and seldom of my Native American one). While I know that perhaps one of the many slaves brought over from Africa was one of my very, very distant relatives, it is not something I can look up on Ancentry.com. (Believe me, I have tried.) Although the world tells me that my coarse hair and brown skin makes me African American, there really isn’t anything else that should lead to such an assumption. Because hidden beneath my coarse brown hair are silkier curls of red and blond. My eyes are sometimes more gold than brown and my “African American” mother’s skin closely resembles the pigmentation of my European American friends. I’m not shaming Africa. I am merely giving its stolen identity back. I have a friend whose parents were born in Africa and who holds citizenship in both the U.S. and Africa. She is African American. Now don’t pity me because I don’t know where I am from. I do. I know I get my prematurely-grey hair from my grandpa, who was an American army veteran and who had Native American roots. I know I get my knack for logic from my mom, and my outgoing personality and people skills from my dad. I know my Godfather/uncle is white, and my first cousins are knowingly Mexican, Greek and Irish. I know my American history. So when I say I hate being African American, I am saying that I hate allowing others to limit my culture to a country I’ve never come to know. In reality, my whole history has happened right here, where my family has always been and where it will always be. Symoné and I aren’t disowning our race. In fact, I couldn’t tell you enough that race is merely an ancient term this country wrongly chooses to use. I am simply asking to claim the only history I’ve been allowed to know. I’m simply asking to be an American.
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