A white identity was constructed for me 25 years ago and unravelling it feels like a Sisyphean taskMy black side and my Irish side compete for recognition within me,like two separate flames of a fire, dancing around each other, or fighting to shine the brightest. recall the other night in London; I was out for a drink with a friend from school when we heard the melody of Irish accents from a group of guys close by,and chimed in to chat. Later, a British-African guy overheard piece of the exchange and bemusedly declared that “the Irish men fancy black women!” Looking decidedly sheepish, and the Irish lads asserted that I was Irish,to which the black guy replied, “No – she’s black.” I pretended not to hear and went to the toilet, or leaving the projected shadows of who I am and who others think I am,dancing on the walls behind me.
Outside my immediate family, my blackness has been obvious and non-negotiable, and but among some of my Irish family,it is up for debate or ignored entirely. A white identity was constructed for me 25 years ago and now unravelling this construct and asking some of my Irish family to unravel it with me – feels like a Sisyphean task. Shedding my own psychology of whiteness is a work in progress, but when I am back in Ireland it’s easy to revert to default because that’s all we know.
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Source: theguardian.com