The lie of the “uniform” Black experience. — The Intersection

Pietra Dunmore

Today I had my blackness questioned, again. It is a familiar scenario that rears its ugly head from time to time, because I was raised in the suburbs. In this particular situation, it was implied that I wasn’t Black because, I didn’t know what dabbing was. For those that don’t know what dabbing is (like I didn’t), here is the definition from Wikipedia, “The Dab is a controversial dance in which the dancer simultaneously drops the head while raising an arm and the elbow in a gesture that has been noted to resemble proper sneezing etiquette and relates to being blazed out of one’s mind.”

This time wasn’t the most ludicrous. There was this time in the early 2000’s when I wasn’t Black because I didn’t drink orange or grape soda, like all the other Black girls that my colleague had known from Camden. As the foolishness left her mouth, I wondered if she had ever had her ethnicity challenged. Whether she was ever called out for not being a true Italian.

“Well what do you know?” she quipped, “I’m blacker than you.”

Another more absurd example I have of ignorant racial questioning, occurred when I was working at a chain salon. My co-worker had a child by an African-American man, and asked me my views on her relaxing…