There was no shortage of comedic gems to stem from the Rachel Dolezal controversy. Quickly following the news that the white activist had disguised herself as African-American for years, black Twitter tackled the moment with a series of cheeky one-liners, hashtags and memes, sparking a hilarious yet honest dialogue about race. But perhaps the most absurdly amusing part of Dolezal’s story is America’s refusal to recognize the sociopathy inherent in her assumption of a new racial identity. Rather, critics and supporters alike are immersed in a debate around the authenticity of Dolezal’s blackness; and with the public unable to come to a consensus, the term “transracial” has emerged to legitimize her web of lies and the media circus surrounding it. Drawing parallels to transgenderism and bolstered by the fluidity of race as a social construct, transracial advocates argue that if Rachel’s racial identity does not match the norms associated with her assigned race, she should thus be allowed to transition into blackness. In short, despite being born to white parents, Rachel has the right to be black.
Today is my 25th birthday and while I relish in any excuse to eat cake and ice-cream, I have to admit that I’ve been dreading entering my awkward and unstable mid-20s. I recently confided my anxiety to my mom and, true to motherly form, she’s taken up the habit of reminding me that I’m “in the prime of my life” every chance she gets! While I appreciate my mother’s optimism, her reassuring words have done little to actually curb what I’ve christened as my “quarter life crisis.” After all, what the fuck is a prime anyway?
My grandfather was a devoted father, a brilliant and underrated black visionary and an adamant racist. I’m not quite sure “racist” is the most politically correct term here — considering racism has more to do with power than personal bias — but, nevertheless, Grandpa Bobby openly and proudly loathed white folk. And, let’s be honest, who could blame him? As a product of the Jim Crow south, one can imagine that his political beliefs were rationally motivated by a fair share of cruel and even violent interactions with white people. While I never adopted his disdain for whites en masse, my grandfather and his uncanny ability to insert the words “cracker” and “honkey” in casual conversation left a lasting impression on me. He passed away when I was 5-years-old, but before he did he instilled in me a keen awareness of the concept of race, the perceived differences between the races, and the unfortunate reality that those differences mattered.