I’m just going to come out and say it. I am not white. Neither is Grace Dartmouth (often times).

Eight years ago, when I started writing my first novel, Hamartia, I made an important choice about how I would depict the main character in any story I ever write. But I told no one about what I did (or rather, didn’t do) which made my bold statement seem more like a sneaky decision. And the result blew up in my face.

What did I do (not do)?

If you look at Hamartia’s cover, you’ll notice that the running woman has no colour. When you read the book, you may or may not notice (most don’t) that I never describe her race. I never tell you what her blood relatives look like either, so as not to give it away. What do I tell the reader about how she looks? She has big hair, and super tight curls. Essentially, I chose to make Grace Dartmouth race-less.

Why, you ask?

I was (and still am) sick of reading stories with only white main characters. Sometimes I resemble the token person of colour thrown into the story for the sake of diversity, such as the sidekick, but I never look like the hero. So when I chose to make my protagonist race-less, it served two purposes: to send a silent “fuck you” to all the excluders who have made me feel invisible, and to let my readers experience a story in a way I never have.

But no one figured it out. I failed.

The thing is, I didn’t want people to notice, per se. I simply wanted to plant a subconscious voice in their minds that would whisper to the reader “Sheee looooks liikeee youuuuu” and to the excluders “fuuuck youuu” and the first part worked—for the white readers. They all thought Grace was white. In fact, even black readers thought she was white. And this was what frustrated me most. At first I didn’t understand and I took it as a personal offense because “you’re not actually black” and “you’re not black enough” are statements I’m used to hearing. But after discussing this phenomenon with a non-white reader we came to a reasonable conclusion: unless a story’s plot is centred on the main character’s race, the main character is usually white. White is the default setting.

So why didn’t I speak up? And why am I breaking my silence now, after eight years?

I was wrong not to speak up and I wish I had done it sooner. I’m breaking my silence now because another black man was murdered by a white cop for being black. Period.

As for why I remained silent in the first place, that’s a hard question to answer without outing some of the white people in my life. But I’m going to do it anyway. My silence boils down to my anger over not being taken seriously because they don’t think I’m black enough. I’ve been told I don’t talk black, dress black, act black, or look black. So who am I to advocate for, speak on behalf of, or stake claim to anything black? Many have said it point blank to my face. Many hint at it. And it’s the reason I sometimes stay silent about anything related to race. What’s the point? No one is listening. And it’s fucking tiring.

Like Grace, I’m sorta race-less but in a different way. My identity swings back and forth like a biracial pendulum, between my white mother and my black father. While some believe I belong to both races, I don’t feel I belong to either. And though I don’t think it’s fair to be asked to pick a side (yes, I have been asked this stupid question), I often find myself disproportionately defending the black side. I argue with family and friends, and am constantly asserting that I am not white. By the very fact of writing this post, it’s exactly what I’m doing now, asserting my spot on the black-white race spectrum.

I can’t tell you how many times white family and friends have made racist remarks in front of me, things they would never say in the presence of their black friends, and then are shocked when I’m outraged and offended. This leaves me with two jobs. First, I have to call them out on their racist bullshit, and then I have to justify why I’m so offended by pointing out the obvious—the colour of my skin. Nine out of ten times, this is what they say next:  

But you’re not black because your mom is white (I have no father?)

But your dad’s not black black (he’s not?)

But you’re Brazilian, not black (so black is a nationality?)

But you don’t even look black (so we all look the same?)

But I consider you white (should I feel flattered?)

But I’m not talking about your kind of black people (whoa! what???)

If you’ve said these things to me or have thought them in your head, you’re right about exactly one thing. I am not black. But my dad is, and I’m his lighter-skinned female twin. My skin is brown. Not white. So when I push further, and argue, defend and explain, and your response is to bat your hand at me and rhyme off variations of this rebuttal: “Oh, you know what I mean” I want you to know you’re a racist.

I know, I know (pumps hands out to calm you down). You’re not wearing a white hood, you never use the n-word, and you have an assortment of black friends/children/spouses/lawyers, whatever. Furthermore, you believe in equality, you hate Donald Trump, and you even support Black Lives Matter. Relax, I see you. Calm down. I don’t believe you mean to be racist, and not everything you do is racist, and yes, you’re probably still a good person. But you make me feel invisible.

My biggest beef is that a lot of people believe a racist comes in one form, in the same way children believe kidnappers are two dimensional scary monsters offering candy at a playground. When a lot of people think of the words racist or racism, they think of the obvious oversimplified (and outdated) definitions of them. But racists come in all shapes, sizes, and degrees. A lot of people don’t realize that their embedded stereotypes from which they base their opinions and actions on are racist. I’m here to tell you that they are. And I should’ve said it a long damn time ago.

But what someone does with their racist thoughts and racist words matter. When I call someone out on their bullshit, there’s a 50/50 chance that a circular argument is on the horizon. Instead of listening to me explain how these comments make non-white people feel, they might justify what they said, or worse, provide endless examples about why they’re right. It’s another reason that instead of engaging, I take my frustrations out by subliminally telling them to fuck off via my race-less main character, Grace. It’s stupid. I know. But I’m tired of explaining and redefining what black means to them. It shouldn’t be my job.

There is hope though. It’s not all bad. Like I said, I know a lot of people don’t mean to be racist. Sometimes when I call someone out on their bullshit, they respond with “I never thought about it that way” which makes me Samba with glee. This means we’re in for a real conversation about race and racism. I know I’m getting somewhere when instead of including me in their race (no thank you), they check their white privilege at the door and ask me questions. Because equality shouldn’t mean “I view all people equally, as white people.” White should not be the default setting. I’m tired of the narrative. Aren’t you?  

Fun fact: as for Grace Dartmouth, the truth is she does have a race and even a nationality. Her ancestors were Mexican. I can’t tell you where she was born for spoiler reasons, but she was raised in Canada and she lives in Toronto. And her skin colour? That’s for you to decide.