WOW! I would have loved working back in 1943. I mean, just look at this article? It’s obviously a recipe for an enormously successful and fantastically splendid work environment!

… except not.

January isn’t even over yet and I’m already kinda-sorta freaking out about the blog every day bit. It’s certainly do-able.. I’m just not completely sure it will allow for the most worthwhile reading. I suppose only time will see.

Either way, ever since reading this I’ve been mulling over my own issues from being of mixed ethnicity.

If you weren’t aware, my mother is German and my father is black-American. There’s Native American heritage from his side as well, but I can’t remember which tribe. I should really check into that.

My parents met while my father was stationed in Frankfurt, Germany. I was born on an Army post in the U.S., but have dual-citizenship between here and there (a perk of being born to a German citizen).

Military families move around a lot and we were no exception to the rule. My first memories are of living in Germany, where I attended Kindergarten and elementary school. It’s where I learned how to read, speak and write the language. I doubt I’d be able to communicate with my mom’s side of the family had it not been for that.

The first time I remember dealing with the brunt end of racism was in Frankfurt. At the time, my best friend was Daniel and we got along supremely well because he was British and German. He never saw my skin color; was just intrigued we could both speak the same two languages. One day, we were on our way to after-school care when bullies from the middle school across the street called me an assortment of colorful names. It was obvious that they took issue with my skin pigmentation. Daniel didn’t like this – at all – and promptly defended me. In hindsight? Not the best idea. In response, they rushed over and one of them grabbed Daniel by the ankles to hang him upside down, after which both of them proceeded to beat the ever living shit out of him.

That was also the first time I truly felt guilty for being a shade darker than most of my peers. I wasn’t the only kid in my class who wasn’t white, but you could count on one hand how many of us there were. To this day, thinking about that situation brings me to tears.

I think this was the beginning of a long spell in which I felt intrinsically guilty for things I had no control over.

Fast forward to a few years later and we’re back in the U.S., this time in Virginia. All of a sudden, I was in a school with a plethora of mixed diversities but I was still the odd-ball out. At this point, I spoke broken English and stuck out like a sore thumb.

I mean, I was that weird black girl that couldn’t speak the language. I was fairly isolated from the rest of the crowd. I was in a neighborhood that was predominantly made up of minorities and while you’d think they would’ve been more accepting of me… they definitely were not.

I remember being so excited to be back in America because, oh-my-god, there were people that actually looked like me! How freaking cool?!

It just didn’t really pan out the way I thought it would. Not only did I talk funny, but I was too light to be accepted by a majority of the black kids.

Back to square one.

There were back-handed comments, sideways glances and general exclusionary activity. It was then that I turned into a bookworm because it was easier to deal with school work than actual feelings and emotions.

Outside of school there were a handful of things that just broke my heart. Like, when my family went to the beach on vacation. A store manager called my father a “nigger asshole” after my brother and I pissed said manager off. We were extremely young and bouncing on couch cushions which prompted him to run at us while yelling profanities. Dad didn’t take too kindly to us being threatened and said as much. That’s when it quickly came to blows and I was positive someone was going to get hurt or my dad would go to jail.

Then there was that time in Bad Lauterberg, Germany, when I was visiting my grandparents. It was the last place on this planet where I felt perfectly accepted for who I was. My grandparents love me dearly and all of their friends were amazing. Bad Lauterberg is tiny, everyone knows everyone. I got along great with the local baker, the lifeguard and a slew of other folks. It was my “safe haven.” Well, it was until I went back in my later teens. Picture a town so small you could walk from one end to the next in less than an hour. Now, look at the picture to the right. That’s the main street (the kind with all the major stores where everybody congregates). As I was walking down one side [at that exact spot pictured], these guys who were across the street suddenly decided to scream, at the very top of their lungs, “Go home you nigger! You ASSHOLE! Go back to where you came from!” I mean, everyone heard them. I couldn’t describe all my feelings at that exact moment if I wanted to but I was hurt, embarrassed and ashamed.

There was the time I went to the Outer Banks with BFF #1 (Kay) and BFF#2 (Lily). Kay is blonde-haired, blue eyed and of Polish/Italian decent while Lily is black-American, but a shade lighter than me. We walked into a restaurant for breakfast and the entire place went quiet. I’ve never been eyeballed so hard, by so many people in one place in my life. After taking our seats, Kay was the first one to ask, “wait… this is a race thing isn’t it?” The rest of us already knew, so we simply nodded.

I could go on for a while with stories like this but I don’t think that’s necessary.

I’ve always had the underlying thought of, “Where do I fit in?”

The simple answer? No where. I don’t fit in anywhere.

Today, I’m happy to be who I am. My differences set me apart and make me unique. I’ve always cared more for the ultra eccentric than anything main stream. I actually prefer sitting outside of the box. It just took me an incredibly long time to get there.

Back in 2000 & 2001, my roommate (another best friend whom I shall call Lily) was always scrounging up the latest & most poignant news articles.

Something about being in college made us a hell of a lot more aware of the shit going on outside of our borders. Granted, we were no idiots in high school but everything seemed to revolve around the drama-laden halls of that horrendous academic building.

Fuck, I hated high school.

But anyway, we’d sit in our dorm and chit chat about things and the conflict – or “blood” – diamond trade was a pretty big deal. I remember that there weren’t a whole lot of people aware of this. Something that was evident whenever we brought up the topic to our peers, all of whom were fairly well educated themselves.

Since then, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kanye West have brought much more awareness on the subject to America… but Lily & I were always like, “Duh? Didn’t you know? This shit’s been going on for a while.”

I mean, if a family even lived near the diamond mines, they were at risk of being mutilated, raped, burned or murdered. It was a little like telling your neighbor, “You know what? I don’t like you living next to my yard, so fucking move. You have 3 days to do it,” and then turning around and just wiping out the entire neighborhood before they had the time to meet the demand.

Former President Charles Taylor (of Liberia) is now undergoing a massive trial for all of the shit he stirred by condoning & facilitating the blood diamond trade and providing the weapons to the RUF to carry out some of the most heinous crimes you could possibly imagine.

I’m talking chopping off arms while laughing at their victims’ misfortune; sex slavery; and torching people’s parents right in front of their eyes.

Who recovers from trauma like that?

For that matter, ever since I’ve learned of the situation I’ve been fairly anti-diamonds. I know, there are a vast majority of them that come from non-conflict zones and that’s great. But I’m a pessimist and overly skeptical. Wherever there is money to be made, there are skeemers and liars.

I don’t hold qualms against those who do enjoy diamonds. I mean, really? It just isn’t any of my business.

Except for those “hip-hop” asshats with their motherfucking gaudy ass chains and blinding jewelry. Who the fuck told you it was cute to wear that shit in your mouth? And why the fuck do you feel the need to wear so much weight in diamonds that you could feed an entire country with its monetary equivalent?!

It’s usually those egotistical fuckwads that are rapping/rhyming about how horrendous the “white man” is for “keeping them down” when they won’t pull their own shit together.

Fuck, that just irritates the piss out of me.

Disclaimer: There is a vast difference between actual hip-hop and the bullshit the music industry likes to feed people. I love the real stuff because they talk about real shit. Aside from that, to this day there is entirely too much racial discrimination & disparity … but that motherfucker who grew up in the ‘burbs and is talking about the ‘hood? He needs to shut the fuck up.