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.
The morning began with a text from my sister Felecia, “Love you Cotton Top. Enjoy your special day.” I smiled remembering the forgotten childhood nickname that only she used. I spent the afternoon with some of my loved ones. The best part of the day was having the platinum trifecta together once again. Three decades of friendship is a remarkable thing. Diane, Dale and I came into our own together. I could not have planned for a better pair to celebrate and reminisce with.
We caught up on with one another and talked about how our lives have been enhanced because of albinism. We of course migrated from my beautiful backyard to the comfort of the family room. My daughter and niece were intrigued, sometimes hanging on each divulged sharing. Everything from “you broke my heart when you chose the path you did.” to “I never told you, how much you were my role model.” We laughed and teared up, appreciative of the love and honesty we shared amongst us.
I am thankful for friendship. I am thankful for the unconditional love of family and friends.
Albinism Awareness Day is over and yet the work continues. This day is symbolic of what many are doing to create awareness and education about albinism. We, PWA are not only visible, we are everywhere. Together with friends and allies, individuals and organizations are committed to improving conditions for children and adults living with albinism.
I am reminded of the activists who campaigned, who were vigilant. who showed up by any means possible to bring awareness to AIDS and its impact on men, women and children in Africa. The activists were tenacious, they were dedicated and they were tireless in their commitment toward research, services and education to communities worldwide. Their work laid the foundation for future activists addressing many causes. And like our predecessors, those of us who have taken on the mantle of bringing albinism to the forefront of governments, physicians and individuals attention to make change do so with renewed vigor, with tireless commitment and most of all with honor and respect.
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 am who I am and I care not what you think about me. This is the grown up version of sticks and stones may hurt my bones but names will never hurt me. The truth is most of the time I am oblivious to the stares bestowed upon me. I am focused on getting from one place to another, or most recently, navigating my way through a concert venue. Although I may not see people staring, I can feel them doing so. I learned a long time ago that if I allowed myself to be affected by every look or insensitive statement hurled my way, I would never leave home.
However, unlike the rhyme, words do hurt me. Sadly I have been most hurt by the words of people form my own culture. I have been asked why I was at events that were solely for African American women. I have been told I did not belong, was not welcome and that simply put, I wasn’t Black enough. Those who declared these statements might well have told me that I wasn’t’ human for I was treated as other. What this did to me, how I was affected, was with internalized racism. I already battled the “I am way too different to be embraced by this community or that community” and yet I continued to show up. Though the bottom line was that I never felt completely me within the black community.
As a teenager I was bullied. I was physically attacked in junior high school mostly because of the color of my skin. The attack left me with a bloodied nose, bruised ribs and with a sense of terror. Afterward, I no longer wanted to be black. The first year of high school bore similar encounters. The difference was that my older brother was in school with me and upon learning that kids were throwing food at me, he did what many big brothers often do, he punched the boys. He let them know I was his sister and I was off limits. In time i developed friendships. I had a core group of cohorts and we looked out for one another.
In my early adulthood, I began to spread my wings. Prior to this time, I had been very shy. The shyness was a cover for fear. Fear of being treated poorly, fear of not being able to see what might be coming my way and fear of rejection. Living life affected with albinism makes me vulnerable in the world. This is a reality. And yet, I believe in living life fully.
I have worked to heal the internalized self hatred that developed as a result of my appearance. This has been at times hard and yet incredibly rewarding as I am clear that I define myself as an African American woman with albinism. I also say that I navigate the world as a white skinned black woman. When I share this with people, in just this way, they get it. Consequently there is a greater degree of acceptance.
Part of living my life fully has meant that I have come to be comfortable in my own skin. I have come to love myself. Unlike the girl I once was who, instead of pushing back against those who teased me,, I now pause. I ask myself, how do I wish to address the insensitive or ignorant statement directed my way? Honestly, my response depends on the context with which someone comes at me. And believe me, I can tell by the tone of their voice. If there is genuine curiosity, I am more inclined to share information about albinism. If, on the other hand, there is judgement or plain meanness, I choose to walk away. Because, in the end, I am who I am and I care not what you think about 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.