Black Lives Matter. The word on everyone's lips, whether for, against or indifferent.
I felt as though my black life had never truly mattered. During my 56 years, I had grown accustomed to the negative impacts of race in my life, and so I settled and accepted my lot, so to speak. Having lived a white life (white parents, white schooling, white neighbourhoods, white friends, white family, all things white, except outwardly my peers generally see me to be black) I am still having to explain my heritage to white associates. Even during these latter twilight years, having championed an enlightened, educated, dread-locked, mixed race heritage, I still donned my comfortable white identity shaped slippers, warts and all.
Looking back, I had unconsciously resigned myself to a white life, accepted the imperfections, injustices and my inferiority complex as my lot. I celebrated my one mixed race friend, with whom I gained little insights that my nurturing had denied me. How my inner child envied my friend, having had her black dad; I wished for my real black dad, but he never came. Instead, I grew up with the negative black man stereotypes.