Diversity: Sum of Parts

     At the end of the virtual meeting, Jessica relays the struggles of being an African-American female —responsible for her family's welfare, while giving 110% at work to dismantle stereotypes. I comfort Jessica and let her know I understand, for I'm also an African American.  There's silence. After thirty seconds, she says in a confusing tone, Oh, you picture looks ambiguous. We're using Microsoft Teams without video, so I study my profile picture.

 

     Ambiguous. A-M-B-I G-I-O-U-S, Ambiguous. It's the first time I hear someone refer to me this way. Striking and interesting are common statements unless someone is bold enough to ask, What nationality are you, or where are your people from? These questions imply I do not conform to their view of what an African American should look like. People ask questions to determine my racial identity, not to get to know me. If they wanted to learn about me, they would ask, what do you like to do, or how do you like to interact with others? 

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     I am the sum of distinct parts — An African American woman of Nigerian descent, as well as European and Native American heritage. My DNA connects me to Southeastern US African Americans and Southern Ohio African communities. Responses to questions about race classify me as a person who originated from Africa. This classification has evolved. Enslaved African Americans and their descendants have been described as Negro or Mulatto, and eventually Black or African American. Previously, the one-drop rule categorized persons residing in the Southern United States, with a single drop of ‘Black blood,’ as Black. Currently, the standard on race and ethnicity describes me and my people as byproducts of Africa —the Mother Land and the United States.

I am a person of color, even though the word color is ambiguous. The color wheel, based on Isaac Newton's experiments on how light passes through prisms, identified seven unique colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Black and white were not recognized for their uniqueness; this may be why some people debate their legitimacy. Various scientists conclude that white is a color because it contains all light spectrum colors. Conversely, some experts do not categorize black as a color because it does not include light. Even with the debate, black and white are used to describe a person's race. However, I wish we could unite and consider all persons as people of the 'human race.'

 

     Planting flowers is one of my hobbies. The activity began as a coping mechanism for work-related stress. Now, the therapeutic outlet is something I enjoy. I rush outdoors after work to a garden displaying a diversity of colors. In the front of the house are three knock-out roses, situated in along two pink cupid-kiss climbing trellises. Adjacent to the natural area with sun-bleached pine chips is another flower bed where double-flowered pink, yellow, and orange zinnias border its sides, as massive yellow flowers fill the plot. A giant Laura phlox blooms sweet-smelling purple flowers in another area along with white daisies and yellow Black-eyed Susans containing a raised black center.

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     For many hours, I plant flowers in raised beds, prune roses, and pluck grass from crimson phlox spreading between Russian sage. The blistering summer sun turns my sun-kissed arms and hands from honey beige to golden brown. Coloring fades back to honey beige in the fall; ultimately transforming into a red-tinged beige during the winter. Likewise, flower colors change with the seasons. The cold winter temperatures place flowers in dormancy. Leaves wilt and fall to the ground, and leafless, short, brown, dead-looking stems replace the beautiful bouquet of summer flowers.

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     Skin color can be associated with beauty or imperfections. My hero, Winnie Harlow is a vitiligo spokesperson of Jamaican heritage. She struts down the runway, poses for print advertisements, and appears in music videos as large white patches frame her nose and lips, extend to the chin, and display bilaterally on the hands and arms. She wears short dresses and  sits with legs crossed— unencumbered by how spots around kneecaps and feet contrast her chocolate complexion. Vitiligo does not define her, and I embrace that confidence. I no longer allow a small white patch, appearing on the left  side of my forehead during the Summer to define me. Previously, I parted my hair on the right and swooped it to the left for coverage. When the depigmentation was not concealed, it was blotted with a color stick or mascara wand. Now, I boldly part my hair on the left, unless I want to sport a different hairstyle.

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     Flowers and people need various things to survive. Flowers need sunlight, water, soil, and nutrients. During the Spring and Summer, I mulch flower plots with pine bark to enhance beauty and control weeds. Plant watering occurs during early mornings or evenings,  just before the sun sets. Manual watering switches to an oscillator sprinkler when the temperature and suffocating humidity increase. I mix enriched soil into the Earth and crumble dirt between the fingers. The dirt is the holy ground! A place where I commune with shackled ancestors who toiled Southern plantation fields, and other ancestors— the original founding fathers of America.

 

     I learned about Abraham Maslow while taking psychology courses in college. The psychologist asserted that basic needs are the foundation of human needs. Attaining physical needs enables an individual to focus on social needs with milestones of giving and receiving love. Continually attaining laddered milestones allows an individual to have self-esteem, eventually reaching the highest point — self-actualization. Through self-awareness, I focus on personal value instead of proving my worth to others. My identify is expressed in what I say, wear, and do. As a citified southerner, an ivory Nina Leonard sweater dress with blousy lace sleeves is coordinated with ivory, suede, knee-high dress boots, and a metallic three-quarter cowgirl jacket with fringe details. Conversely, work boots from the local feed store are worn when flower gardening.

 

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    After the call with Jessica, I reflect on the conversation and times I felt that I did not fit in. Then I reaffirm to be myself, no matter what others think or say. Shrugging memories of haunted stares and expressions of confusion, I look into the mirror and declare, I am who I am, and that is all that matters!

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THE END