Photo of the author courtesy of Miles Simmons Powell
“Say it again!” I yelled, staring Billy T. down. Though there was a hot, prickly itching behind my eyes, they stayed dry. He chanted in a taunting schoolyard singsong.
“N ger, N ger, N ggger.”
I was 11 years old in Boulder, Colorado, the only Black kid in the schoolyard. All the kids gathered around to watch me cry. Again.
As a little girl, I didn’t know I was Black. Not until I was 9 or 10 did I understand how my color set me apart.
I was adopted at the age of 8 by a white woman and a Black man. I had been moved around between foster homes and a previous adoption, and though my current family had some issues, my brand-new baby brother and sister were beautiful. I’d landed all right.