This week marks another birthday. I love birthdays, especially mine I have learned a great deal about myself over the last year. I have rediscovered how resilient I am. I have learned to pick myself up and dust myself off and continue on because life is too short to dwell on the past. I know that with a lot of love and support I can accomplish many things.
It is with this knowledge, I am taking huge risks both personally and professionally. I choose me. I love my work with families which fulfills one of my life’s purposes, which is partnering with parents to assist them with providing amazing beginnings for their children. I have also become more active within the albinism community which fulfills another purpose of giving back. I have received many gifts in learning to love and embrace myself as a beautiful, compassionate and caring woman of African descent with albinism. Lastly, it is my goal and purpose to share my story with the world. So it is with great joy that I give to others while creating space for me.
As some of you know I will be traveling to Dar es Salaam Tanzania in November to attend the first Pan`African Albinism conference. I am honored and so very excited I could and probably will, cry happy tears. It is my hope that you will help me make this journey possible.
I will be launching a crowdfunding campaign this week in honor of my birthday. Please give what you can. Please share the link once it is posted. Please know how much I appreciate your generosity.
I should be sleeping but I’m so excited that today has come. Today we celebrate Albinism. I am overcome with emotion. Never could I have envisioned a movement such as this where the world gets to unite with people with albinism to celebrate, to stand proud, to bring awareness and education about this condition.
Just a year ago I attended a NOAH national conference for the first time. For me the experience was life changing. I had never encountered other African American PWA’s. Throughout the weekend I marveled at the similarities we shared as well as the many differences. New friendships were formed. My life has been enriched and I am forever thankful that I trusted myself and went.
I will post after the BBQ I’m hosting in honor of the day. Thank you for taking this daily journey with me.
It is the eve of International Albinism Awareness Day. In some parts of the world celebrations have already begun. This is our time. Many have done the work, lain the foundation so that we can unite to celebrate our individual and collective accomplishments. Personally, this heightened awareness for albinism is on par with the joy and pride many in my country experienced in 2008 when voters elected the first African American President, President Barak Obama. I see IAAD as a beginning. Like those who worked endless hours, weeks, months and years to make it possible for the United States to elect an African American to lead the country, similarly, many individuals and organizations paved the path for the United Nations to decree June 13th as a day of awareness, a day of celebration, and a day to gather as community.
Below I have provided links to messages from the United Nations High commissioner, the National Organization for Albinism and Hypopigmentation, Under The Same Sun and from Patricia Wilocq, a renowned photographer whose current project Blanc Ebène, White Ebony is a collaboration with the Gertler Family Foundation. These are but a few of the many individuals and grmoups who advocate for people affected with albinis.
UN High Commissioner Message
Patricia Willocq is a freelance photographer born 1980 in the Congo.
After completing her Master’s degree in Translation at the Higher Institute of Translators and Interpreters in Brussels (ISTI) she decided to travel around the world and developed her photography skills along the way.
Amongst the many assignments she undertakes around the world she also dedicates time to support the work of associations and NGOs fighting in the field of human rights.
White Ebony, one of her last photographic essay about people with albinism in the Democratic Republic of the Congo has won a honourable mention at the Unicef Photo of the Year Award 2013 and has been exhibited at Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights.
She endeavours to avoid miserabilism and her work is often associated with projects that promote tolerance and dignity.
White Ebony- Blanc Ébène
Time has flown by. When I committed to writing and posting daily as a way to share more about albinism, I knew it would pose a challenge for me. Until now, I have been at best an intermittent blogger. The past twelve days has allowed me to push myself as a writer, delving into some personal experiences which I knew would and have generated lots of emotions.
Growing up with albinism in the 1960’s and 1970’s in the Black community was far from easy. For my culture this was a time of standing up for our rights, requesting, no demanding racial equality. Honestly, we continue to fight this battle today.. As a young girl, (six) I would be in my grandparents backyard, equipped with a radio, in my personal shaded alcove. It was really an open shed that housed garden supplies. I could be heard singing “Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud” by James Brown at the top of my lungs. I loved that song. Indeed I was black and proud. For me it was a declaration of my identity.
Later as a teenager, upon enduring horrible bullying by schoolmates who were also black did my thinking begin to change. I did not understand why they did not see me as one of them, when I too, was/am black.
When I went off to college, I did so a little early to participate in an EOP Educational Opportunity Program for students of color at the university I attended. When I arrived, the student registering everyone kept trying to send me over to a different dorm for sorority rush. After I insisted he look up my name did he see for himself I should be there. This was the beginning of an entirely different experience. Overwhelmingly, others did not view me as ethnic. I had the same experience amongst the other students of color. My way of dealing with this was to form friendships with whomever I pleased. Whomever, in this case meant whites. I stopped dying my hair. I blended in. I was a chameleon.
As an adult, I take my identity seriously. I have come to peace with both being African American and with having albinism. When people ask me, “so what are you?” I know they mean where do I fit ethnically. Most often I respond with, I am a white skinned black woman.
I want to talk about family. Families are important to the social and emotional development of children. Within the family unit children are loved, nurtured, taught valuable skills and have a sense of belonging. At least this is the case when family works. When, in the event a child, especially a child with albinism, is without parents or siblings, then there is loss.
My family of origin is huge! Just look at the photo above. And this is just one side of the family. I grew up amongst my siblings and tons of cousins on my maternal grandmother’s side of the family. There were gatherings, celebrations and Sunday dinners after church. When with my cousins, I was free to just be. The older ones looked after the younger children, of which I was one. Yet there was camaraderie, there was love and there was fun.
I have shared a small bit about my mother. Yes she was surprised by giving birth to a child with albinism, yes she did the best she could, given my needs and the care of her other three children, and yes she loved me as much as she could. She was my advocate, demanding that I be allowed a mainstreamed education before that was ever a requirement for children with disabilities. And, yes, she reached her own breaking point where she just wanted me to look like everyone else. By the time I was in high school, mother could not do or give anymore for/to me. She would address me in the third person or ignore me altogether. I continued to have household responsibilities, however more often than not I was left to myself.
For many children with albinism living in East Africa family has come to mean the relationships they have with their peers, teachers and care givers within the residential schools they call home. They do not have parental support and love afforded others, for many have been shunned by their communities. I cannot pretend to know how these children feel about their situation. I do however have compassion for them. I do know that children are resilient and that in these schools there is camaraderie, there is a bond shared. For without their existence the safety and well being of these young people would be in greater jeopardy.
I have been fortunate enough to leave behind aspects of my family of origin that no longer worked for me and instead create the family that suited me. Back in high school I had a teacher who saw potential in me and who also recognized I needed mentoring. She is still a vital part of my life. I like to say that I have two mothers. I was birthed and raised by one and sent off to the finishing school of the other. I now refer to Carol as mom. She has and continues to love me, push me, encourage me as well as tell me hard truths when I need them. Mom is the woman I go to when I am troubled or when I need to bounce ideas off of someone. This is the nature of our relationship. Mom and i share things with each other. Deep things. I have been profoundly affected having her as my mom. My albinism has never been an issue for her. Mom has always seen well beyond my physical attributes. I have learned immeasurable skills from her for which I am eternally grateful. Coupled with the childhood lessons I learned from mother I am an unstoppable force.
There are those who believe that blood is thicker than water. I believe that it is the water along with the blood that sustains me.
I arrived at school Monday ,my hair colored light ash blonde, my face made up. Once at school I made my way to my favorite teacher’s portable. Miss Green was the best. She was a great listener always willing to make time whenever I needed to talk to someone or to offer practical words of wisdom when I had hurt feelings from being teased. I’d hoped she would be in her room and she was. I stood in the room my eyes adjusting from the bright morning sunlight to the artificially lit room. I waited for her to notice me. Unable to stand her not saying anything I said good morning and asked if she noticed anything different about me. I stood allowing her to take in the new me. Miss Green regarded me, settling finally on my face. The one and only question she asked was whether or not I liked it all. There was no judgement, no ‘why would you have done this to yourself.’ There was only the gentle smile on her face giving me permission to like or dislike the newly created me. I stand forever in gratitude for that response. She let me go on and on abut the entire process until glancing at the clock I was reminded I had a class to be at.
I slid into my desk. I did all i could to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Pretending to not hear the whispers around me I focused on my math book. When the final bell rang everyone looked directly at Mrs Alexander. There were still a few whispers behind me. Two girls were talking about me. All of a sudden my confidence about my new self dissipated. I felt exposed and uncomfortable. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. The girls were called out having to walk to the front of the room to face the strictest teacher in the school. Lowering my head i peeked to my left noticing others doing the same thing. Some stifled snickers with coughs while others did what they could to stay under the radar. Strands of golden blonde hair touched my arm. For better or worse this was my hair i told myself so i might as well make it for better. Hearing the door close i sat up looking for the two chastised students. They were gone. And so began my first day at school as a blonde.
In the halls between classes bore a completely different story. Everybody noticed me. A few girls said they liked the blonde. they told me the color brought out my face. Still others told me they were jealous that i could wear makeup. When i shared that it had been my mom’s idea that alone made me suddenly cool. Smiling, happy with the attention I closed the locker door finding the two girls from algebra looking at me. “You look stupid,” one said and ” don’t think that makes you normal. You’ll always be a freak.” came the other. My face crumbled, cheeks burning with hurt and shame. Holding in the tears which stung my eyes wanting to spill forward I walked away quickly hurrying upstairs to my next class. So much for looking normal i muttered to myself. I would never fit in and I knew it.
Fitting in is all I ever wanted as a teenager. This is what all teenagers aspire toward. When you look different, act different, think different, are different from everybody else you stand out. You risk being the target of unwanted attention. You risk being an individual with your own thoughts, you risk being included and accepted for who you are. I wish I had known these things when I was young. I wish all teenagers, all children knew this in the moment and I wish the world were kinder. Thankfully I am no longer so naive as to believe we all get treated equally for this is not so. As a girl who didn’t see well and as a girl with white skin in a community of brown I was other.
In retrospect, I understand that my mother’s desire to have me color my hair stemmed from a need on her part for have me present as normal. Additionally, I choose to believe that she chose this path for me out of love. Embracing the latter has proved challenging because if you love someone, why can you not accept them for who they are? Perhaps had I met the woman and her daughter as my mother had, I might have had the idea rather than having a plan presented to me, which I had no option but to comply with.
After I graduated from high school, I left for college. With a newfound freedom, I stopped coloring my hair. My mother and I used to argue abot my decision because, well she wanted me to do things her way. In the end, this was the begginning of my independence. My choice to embrace my identity as a black woman with albinism allowed me to begin to love myself.
When I was young, most summer days found me in my room longing to play outdoors with my older brother and younger sister. Sunscreen had yet to be invented which meant the sun was not my friend. By age nine, I knew that if I promised to sit in the shade, most often I could convince my mother to allow me to play outside. Clad in a long sleeved shirt and pants, sunglasses and a hat I sat on the sidelines as kids my age and older played softball. I watched as my brother Greg rounded everyone up. Moments later he pulled me up by the hand, giving me the bat. The only rule he had was no crying.
What happened next has held fast in my memory. I was taught how to hold and swing the bat. After striking out, embarrassed, I looked at no one. “She gets nine chances instead of three” my brother announced. After four more swings I finally hit the ball. Everyone cheered as my brother guided me around the bases. When the next person at bat hit the ball I ran home. The exhilaration of having been included in an activity I believed far beyond my capabilities is a testament to the power of love.
Throughout the remainder of our childhood, Greg found opportunities for me to spread my wings. We rode our bikes 2 miles to visit our grandparents. Once away from our worried mother, I was on my own. I felt the wind on my face and an amazing freedom. It was he who took me to my first dance, all the while glaring at anyone who dared ask me to dance. Greg was my protector as well as my cohort in crime.