The National Museum of African American Arts and Culture opened today and I found myself getting very emotional about a history that is not entirely mine. My ancestors are not West African and did not come to America on slave ships (they probably went East to Asia instead). They didn't endure segregation. As far as I know, they weren't a part of the American civil rights movement.
And yet, as I walk down the street, all people see is the color of my skin. It doesn't matter that I am wholly African. There are those who can tell the difference and ask me about it but in the eyes of many, I am just black. My history is irrelevant to them.
Should it matter that I am not American? Probably not but I can't escape the fact that in America, such nuances only matter when there is trouble.
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