The Colored Girl

Growing up, my grandmother always referred to Black folks as Colored. Even as a child I thought that was the cutest thing. She would say, “The Colored girl over there helped me.” I’m sure others were not as amused because at that time I think we were more popularly called Negroes. Or maybe we were transitioning into being called Afro-American. I could be wrong because I often get the chronological order of names Black folks prefer confused.

Whatever the case, my grandmother didn't care. She refused to play that name change game.

Now the politically correct refer to us as African-American. Some people actually get offended if called Black. But I have never been completely comfortable with being referred to as African American.

I am an American citizen -- period. To paraphrase a line from the character Prissy, in Gone with the Wind, “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no Africa.” I was born and raised here in America. My parents were born and raised in America and so were their parents. Sadly, my heritage can be much more easily tied to Ireland or the Choctaw Nation than to Africa.


I do not mean to disrespect Africa. I think Africa is a great continent with phenomenal history. If I could definitively trace my roots back to my specific relatives in Africa I might (that’s a big might) feel differently. However, the chances of being able to do an Alex Haley style genealogy are very slim. Therefore, just as I do not consider myself Irish-American nor Native American – I am not African-American.

I do understand the need to have some designation for a person’s ethnicity. For me, being called African-American is just not representative of who I am. With that said, I’m OK with being called Black. I’m OK with being called a Negro. Heck, in honor of my grandmother, you can even call me Colored.