I remember being little and straight-up crying over how dark my skin was. I asked my mom why I couldn’t be light like her and have straight hair like her so I could be pretty. My poor white mother probably didn’t even know what to say to that, but she told me how white people pay to get their hair curled like mine, and skin tanned like mine. I didn’t believe her, but I tried.
And that was me, with my light-ass skin and “good mixed hair.” With the privilege of being racially ambiguous, so that I’m still “other” but I don’t get that immediate resignation to a level of inferiority like more stereotypically-featured people. I barely even have shit to complain about.
That’s why I get upset when people say that I think about race too much, or talk about it too much. Race has formed my whole goddamn life experience, since before I was even old enough to know what it meant.
So please, don’t tell me that I’m ruining your fun when I talk about race. You can deal with it, or leave. This isn’t something I’m just going to shut up about.