I was kidnapped in Washington, DC while a US Senate Page in 2009.
The other day at a party, a white girl drunkenly called me “Nora” for several minutes before she realized that Nora, the only other Asian person present, was actually on the other side of the room.
Over the years, I became conditioned to the process – death, Twitter outrage, and then reflection. My sense of self warped as I came more into my African American roots; understanding what happens, will happen, and can happen to me.
Swimming in a sea of irony and memes, the alt-right ultimately has no idea what it believes.
You judge me off the name on my resume, you judge me if I have dreads, you judge me if I have my natural hair moisturized and free all over my head.
I knew that I was not the same color as either of my parents. I was darker than my mom, but lighter than my father.
If you’re a black woman who is not open to dating outside your race, you may find your options severely limited.
“Finding myself” in relation to my travels make it sound as if I actually left my right leg in Medellin, or something. But “finding myself” is exactly what I’m trying to do.
Because after 23 years of thinking that I knew my ethnic background — of thinking that I knew who I was — I have found out news that changes everything, but at the same time, nothing:
I am (probably) black.
I keep a beard because if I was white, no one would question it or treat it or me otherwise. But because I’m brown, everyone suddenly pays attention.
What continues to impress me about Get Out is that it presents very relatable scenarios that most of us have experienced and to which we can connect, regardless of your race or ethnicity.