I think I noticed I had Brown skin sometime during elementary school. My color was never an issue because I was not raised in a ‘colorblind’ household, but by a family that taught me to realize and embrace differences all the same. My family is white and their lack of color never made mine an obstacle.
In my household, we are big on the concept of freedom. I assume this stems from my mom’s mother, whom I call Gamma. If an encyclopedia were a person, it would be Gamma. She was a real-life hippie in her youth, a hardworking woman and mother in the ‘80s, and now exists to me as one of the few Baby Boomers I would trust to vote in the upcoming election. More importantly, she is my grandmother. She is the woman who is an advocate for peace, the woman who is never afraid to speak her mind and the woman who I always wanted to be when I grew up. Gamma continues to teach me about life from a thousand miles away, back in Louisiana.
Growing up in the Deep South, as surprising as it sounds, wasn’t too impactful until I got into high school. The topic of my Brown skin became more and more prevalent in areas where race had no place. Guys told me I was the first Black girl they had ever been with. That felt like a jab at first. Did people just see me as a Black girl on their list? Was my skin color the most notable thing about me? At the same time, I reveled in the fact that I held such a title, so I took it like a trophy and wore it like a badge. I was okay with being their “first Black girl” because even if they didn’t realize it, I was Maddie, and that was so much more valuable.
Instead of labeling myself the “Black girl”, I chose to take on the title of “Brown girl’’. Unfortunately, “Brown” felt easier for the simple-minded people in my hometown to digest. The word “Black” hit people like a truck, while “Brown” was more of a baseball bat padded with cotton balls. Aside from using it to protect others’ viewpoints, it felt fitting. I don’t entirely fall under the category of a Black woman or a White woman, so Brown was the perfect combination of the two. But when I’m filling out legal work, I feel anxious because that pressure to place myself in a specific box arises. The box I fit in doesn’t exist on the doctor’s office paperwork.
I wouldn’t say I’ve struggled with my race, but grasping the concept has been challenging. My senior year of high school illuminated the idea that other people never really considered me a Black girl. Ultimately, they only labeled me as a Black girl when it was convenient for them.
“No, I’m not racist because Maddie is Black.”
But when we were in the car, singing along to our favorite songs, the n-word would slip out of their mouths like it was accidental. They would glance back at me, their faces displaying that brief yet familiar moment of fear, just before they remembered, “Oh, it’s just Maddie, it’s fine.”
Their concerned looks dissipated in milliseconds. I knew I had no power in the situation. I felt stupid and insignificant, but was I even justified in feeling that way? I’d never considered myself a “Black girl”, so were they even in the wrong? I looked around the room for support but realized there was no one else around who looked anything like me. No one came to my rescue because the alarms only went off in my head.
I felt this way until halfway through my senior year. Due to my involvement in the school newspaper, “The Yahoo,” I connected with my first-ever Black friend, Garyn. Now that I see that in writing, it’s a lot more sad than I anticipated. Despite that, being such good friends with Garyn opened my eyes to the fact that part of me was Black. I don’t think I hid my “Blackness,” but it was just easier to ignore it. For the sake of my (past) friend’s ignorance, for the sake of me having no sort of Black figure in my life, and for the sake of my own sanity, it was easier to blend in–to sit in silence and observe. But if you know me at all, you know I am anything but silent.
Garyn soon introduced me to her parents, whom I now see as another set of my own. Mr. Greg, her dad, taught me how to shake a man’s hand when I wanted to be more stern. Mrs. Sharifa, her mom, teaches me something new every time we speak. The Bevels family have been dealt their share of racism, but fought their battles and ultimately won the war. Even now, Garyn never lets me forget that I’m an “ebony queen” and consistently reminds me of my “Black excellence.”
As silly as those phrases were, they helped me truly see myself as a Black woman. Garyn bought me my first durag for my 18th birthday–another, silly action that morphed into something much more for me. The durag helped me tame my hair, which has always been a deep-rooted insecurity. In a way, my hair is the Blackest part about me, so for a while, we had a love-hate relationship. It’s taken years of practice, but thanks to the Bevels, the way I link my hair to my identity is much more positive. I don’t know if I’m in love quite yet, but I’m on the journey of self-acceptance.
Since arriving at CU, my confidence in my racial identity has not faltered. However, walking into a classroom–on a day that already felt isolating–and noticing I was the only one with Brown skin was tough. In moments like those, I remember how Gamma always told me that I was different from everyone else. Of course, as your grandmother, she’s legally obligated to say things like that, but in my case, she’s correct. I can view my difference as a strength or a weakness. From time to time, it makes me feel weak, but at the end of each day, in a place like Boulder, my difference is what makes me Maddie.
