Zola Kambandu Schilz

Being a child of two races is a struggle in itself. One that society barely recognizes under the never clearing fog of historical and modern day tragedies, the constant evolution of social media and technology, the teens everchanging “ideal image”, and the countless varying focuses of our world today. It’s not like the struggle starts with racism, though sure, it is a contributing factor, but the real hardship starts with questioning oneself. One’s identity. Am I Black, am I White, am I Asian, am I Hispanic, am I, am I, am I… But it’s not that simple. Self identity can never just be that simple. It will be a constant battle to a level of perfection that our world has deemed impossible to obtain as a child of two different races. Society has taught me that they can never see me as both, only one or the other. 

What some people seem to fail ever so amazingly at understanding is this simple fact: Just because one does not live up to your mental and socially accepted stereotype of their culture, does not mean they do not belong to that culture. I have been called white washed. I do not “speak black” but instead I speak, text, and type in a tone that my peers seem to only be able to describe as “proper” and “intelligent” – though it hardly seems fair as the way you speak does nothing to determine the capacity of your mind. Does my tone of voice determine my race? No. I speak like those from where I was raised and because I was not raised in an area where they speak like the rappers you idolize oh so much, that is not how I speak. My tone and my race are simply not comparable on the same plane.  

When you think of a black woman, what do you picture? What image does your mind pull up? Now don’t put too much thought into this question because that very first woman you picture, that’s who you think a black woman should be. Maybe she has dark, melanin skin, a luscious set of big dark lips, arched eyebrows and a large, flat nose. Is her hair curly or straight? Now this first image you pictured? Erase it. Replace it instead with a picture of a girl, one I’ll describe for you. This girl, she has loose curly hair, slightly wild, not pulled back in a slick ponytail but instead wrapped in a printed scarf. She has a skin tone the color of caramel, acne and scars dotting plains of melanin. A petite nose, slightly upturned. Heart shaped lips, skin worn from a bad habit of biting. Eyes a deep brown, though from afar, look as black as a pool of molasses, all swirling around a pitch black pupil and framed by long lashes. This girl you are picturing so well, this girl is me. Me with my Zambian mother and my American father. Me, a young Zambian-American, working to catch a foothold in a country catered to the white man. Me, a self proclaimed black woman who society will never entrust with the title for to them I am neither black nor white.