African Girl in An American World

I am African. I am American.  I am Black. I was born and raised until age 17 on the Continent whose bright blue skies are the most brilliant I've ever seen.  I am a daughter of the sun and marvel at the sunrises and sunsets in Africa. Happiness is infectious and I truly did feel like I had no worries. I became a woman on a Continent of plenty where you want for nothing. There's never one of just one thing.  Variety is the norm. You can easily become overwhelmed picking out toothpaste, a car seat, a house, you name it.  With all its abundance there is also a harshness in this land that I discovered and no one prepared me for. I identify fully as both an African and an American. Some would argue that I am the true definition of African-American.  Others would just argue that I'm just black.  I'd argue that I'm just a human being born with an amazing chocolate hue. I wrote about my experience back in 2006 over   here if you want to...

I had to leave. Reasons began to pile up. Reasons that I had ignored for years suddenly refused to reside in the background in the neat box I had put away.  They demanded to be acknowledged and analyzed whether I was ready or not by appearing in front of me daily.  They were ready to be heard and boy were they loud!  When it's time, girl it's time. So I left. I met this beautiful soul in 1995 as a bright eyed 19 year old and we walked through campus grounds to class singing Tupac's "So much pressure in the air, can you get away?" with nothing but love and our future in front of us.  Our future included college degrees, a marriage, two of the most beautiful brown eyed sons and in 2010 a separation that eventually led to divorce. I realize now after an in depth autopsy of all that was, that I had to leave, leave Lexington specifically because I had lost my identity there. He and I merged into one person and I allowed it. His football teammates sta...