As one of two black students in my elementary school, I, at the tender age of twelve, became the poster child for blackness. Being raised in a predominately white area made me the representative of the black opinion. This reputation followed me through junior high and high school, where I became a prime target for the white supremacists in the area. Though I was born in the United States, I have always felt a greater connection to my Nigerian heritage. I wore traditional Nigerian garb to class, put my hair in braids, and more or less disowned the half of me that is white. After all, no one was referring to my white half when the Klan youth called me “nigger” or slashed the tires of my friend Rebecca’s car for having lunch with me. It certainly wasn’t the Polish in me that incited four white boys to scream out, “Code Negro! Code Negro!,” encircle me and shove me into a brick wall. By graduation day, I was “hyper-black,” as Rebecca called me. To me, everything was about race. I could have found racial injustice in prom decorations had you given me enough time to think about it.

When I arrived on Columbia University’s campus as a freshman in 2005, I quickly joined as many black student associations as I could get my hands on. I was thirsty for culture and the presence of black people. I felt as if I had been deprived. However, my pre-medical curriculum quickly made me realize that I may only have room for one of the eleven organizations I had originally selected. I chose the Nigerian Students Association. Three hour long chemistry labs and midterm weeks that seem to stretch into midterm months usually keep me from being as active in the association as I would’ve liked, but when I received an email invitation to the Nigerian Independence Day Parade with the following tag line: “No matter if you’re born there, 1^st gen, or 2^nd gen, you got that blood runnin’ thru you…rememba that,” I knew I had to be there.

The people mixed so beautifully. Black ebony skin, so dark and smooth it shone. Mahogany. Coffee. Coffee and cream. Caramel. Honey. Old men in traditional gear. Women with bright green geles on and small children strapped to their lower backs with cloths. A group of college boys wore t-shirts that read, “Do you have Igbo in you? Do you want some?” Muslims and Christians. Young and old. And as the invitation had promised, all the generations were represented. I felt comfortable for the first time in a long time.

I hadn’t expected for this parade to be such a landmark in my life; I had simply wanted to go, have a good time, pull out my traditional garb and eat some good food with my friends. But something happened that day that has never, ever happened before. I was recognized. I was stealing bites of jollof rice off my friend Nedu’s paper plate when an elderly woman walking by said, “You’re a Yoruba girl aren’t you?” I dropped my fork and just stared at her, most likely with my mouth still open, completely taken aback. The woman smiled softly. Her eyes were a deep and dark brown.. Looking into her face, I knew she knew all the pain, all of the angst, depression and frustration I had lived. She lifted her wrinkled hand and lightly pressed it against my chest. It was as if she were calming the violent storm she knew had been raging inside my ribcage. I hung my head and I SOBBED. I didn’t care who saw or who was looking. I just sobbed. I sobbed for all the times I didn’t. For all the times I had whispered to myself, “Don’t let them see you cry. Be strong, Shade`. Be strong.” I hadn’t realized how much I had wanted and needed someone to reach out to me that way. I wasn’t Filipino or Hawaiian or Korean; I was and am a Yoruba girl. When I brought my head up to look at the woman, she had disappeared back into the mayhem on the street, as if she were never there. There was only Nedu glancing at me worriedly, “You all right?”

I wiped my eyes and nose, took a big bite of dodo and smiled at him, “Yeah, I am. I really am.” I spent a moment looking for the woman, but soon realized that she probably already knew what I wanted to tell her: thank you.