In Full Color

by Rachel Dolezal

  McDonald asked Chappelle which racial group should take me in the next “racial draft,” a reference to a skit the comedian had created for The Chappelle Show in 2004. Similar to the way general managers picked newly eligible players for their teams in professional sports leagues, representatives from the main racial groups selected various celebrities to join their ranks. With the first pick in the draft, the Black delegation took Tiger Woods, the Jews took Lenny Kravitz with the second pick, and so on. Years later, Black Twitter, a subset of the popular online social network united by issues affecting the Black community, picked up on the idea, with posters suggesting that certain Black celebrities get sent before the Black delegation for review and traded to another race, including Raven-Symoné and Stacey Dash. “I think Black,” Chappelle told McDonald. “We would take her all day, right?”

  The next day, he was joined by former NBA star Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who wrote in a New York Times op/ed, “Whatever the reason, [Rachel Doležal] has been fighting the fight for several years and seemingly doing a first-rate job. Not only has she led her local chapter of the NAACP, she teaches classes related to African-American culture at Eastern Washington University and is chairwoman of a police oversight committee monitoring fairness in police activities. Bottom line: The black community is better off because of her efforts.” He concluded, “The fight for equality is too important to all Americans to lose someone as passionate as she is and who has accomplished as much as she has. This seems more a case of her standing up and saying, ‘I am Spartacus!’ rather than a conspiracy to defraud. Let’s give her a Bill Clinton Get Out of Jail Free card on this one (#Ididnothavesex) and let her get back to doing what she clearly does exceptionally well—making America more American.”

  Two days later, Allyson Hobbs also gave me some much-needed encouragement in a New York Times op/ed. “As a historian who has spent the last twelve years studying ‘passing,’ I am disheartened that there is so little sympathy for Ms. Doležal or understanding of her life circumstances,” she wrote. “The harsh criticism of her sounds frighteningly similar to the way African-Americans were treated when it was discovered that they had passed as white. They were vilified, accused of deception and condemned for trying to gain membership to a group to which they did not and could never belong.”

  As far as the positive responses I received, that was about it. Otherwise, the press was quick to assume that Larry and Ruthanne were fine, upstanding citizens and that I was the worst kind of villain. The words journalists used to describe what I’d done, many of which were taken directly from Larry and Ruthanne’s mouths, shaped the narrative. I was “masquerading.” I was “faking.” I was “being deceptive.” While the evolution of my identity made perfect sense to me, it quickly became clear that it didn’t to anyone else. Instead of delving into the complexities of my life and asking thought-provoking questions about the concept of race, the press fixated on my alleged “fraudulent behavior.”

  The real story, at least in my eyes, was the public’s response, which showed just how divided—and confused—we remain in this country when it comes to talking about (or even defining) race. Many people simply couldn’t fathom how someone who was born into the racial category known as white could ever feel Black or why that person would want to be viewed that way. They presumed I identified as Black to advance my career or make more money, and the press seemed happy to play along. There was never any mention of the fact that two of the four jobs I’d had were unpaid, that one of the paid ones barely covered the electric bill, and that the other provided only enough income to pay the rent and buy groceries. My income had always hovered around the poverty line, and in that regard I was not unlike many other Black women in the United States, who, studies have shown, make 16 percent less in the workplace than white women do.

  What the press had to say about me was tame compared to what people said to me in emails or about me on online message boards. In the days following my outing, I was slapped with a long list of ugly labels so misogynistic and racist they could make a foul-mouthed comedian blush. That I was called both a “cracker-ass honky” and a “cunt-bitch nigger” showed how united Americans were in their division: Black people and white people hated me equally. I lost count of how many ugly memes were generated about me online. Another hurtful name I was called was “transnigger.” When discussing it with Sandy Williams, the editor of The Black Lens and my good friend, she grimaced but tried to make light of it, saying, “Well, that’s new!” Neither of us had ever heard that word before. Had a racial slur really been concocted specifically for me?

  As offensive as most of the names I was called were, one of them invited further discussion. One of the many claims made about me was that I was the “first transracial woman.” Unbeknownst to many, “transracial” had already been coined as a very specific term used to describe interracial adoptees. It would have been correct to categorize my adopted siblings that way under this definition, but not me. When I repeated this term in an interview, quoting someone else, people assumed I was using it to describe myself, and, unfortunately, doing that offended an entire segment of the population that otherwise might have been open to hearing what I had to say. On the plus side, a small fan base emerged in support of the idea of racial identity fluidity. They made me the mascot for their movement and had T-shirts printed that read, “TransRachel,” a play on the word “transracial.” Soon people began relaying to me their own stories of the difficulties of living with plural racial identities.

  As inaccurate as the term “transracial” was, it did succeed in capturing the fluidity of my identity. There simply weren’t any words available that correctly categorized my unique experience. Without the proper vocabulary, people kept comparing me to Caitlyn Jenner, the Olympic gold medalist formerly named Bruce who’d come out as a transgender woman in an interview with Diane Sawyer on April 24, 2015. Insofar as Caitlyn had been born under one categorical label and later claimed another categorical label as being closer to her true self, I could understand how the comparison was helpful. The accusations that I was sick in the head were reminiscent of the struggles endured by those in the LGBT community. Up until 1973, even homosexuality was classified as a mental illness in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But in other ways comparing my cultural (and perceived racial) identity to gender identity didn’t make much sense. Most people in the scientific community would agree that sex has always been defined to a greater degree by genetics than race, whereas race is a social construct that can’t be determined by physical or genetic measures. I nonetheless appreciated the attempts at understanding my situation, as they highlighted our limited knowledge of racial fluidity and showed how little empathy we have for those who don’t fit neatly in any one category.

  When it comes to our understanding of gender, we’ve made incredible strides. Fifty years ago, you were either male or female or you were forced to hide in some closet. Now all the shades in between are recognized, to the point that an entirely new vocabulary has emerged, including female-to-male transgender, male-to-female transgender, trans*, and cisgender. On the subject of race, however, we’re less informed. In most communities in the United States, you’re either Black or white. Period. We barely have words to describe the large and rapidly growing population of multiracial people who inhabit the space between these two manufactured poles. Those who visibly fall somewhere between Black and white and can’t be quickly categorized by physical features are frequently ostracized for not being Black enough, not being white enough, being too Black, or being too white.

  I could empathize with these people, as I never comfortably fit into a single box. I certainly didn’t think, feel, or act white, but at the same time few people now saw me as Black. Photos of me were analyzed on talk shows and websites, with my body shape, facial features, skin tone, hair texture, clothing, food choices, habits, and mannerisms all being racialized. Some people contended that I “must be a real sista” based on these traits, whil
e others said I “looked so white” they didn’t know how anyone could ever see me as Black. I was stuck in a surreal space that defied categorization. As Chris Stewart, aka Citizen Stewart, said on his weekly education reform podcast, I was “a nation of one.”

  It only takes a quick glance at the convoluted formulas that were created to determine one’s race—from Thomas Jefferson’s unsympathetic math to the one-drop rule—to see what a mirage race truly is. Why have we invested so much meaning in the idea of race and gone to such great lengths to ensure its existence? The notion of race was created and maintained by fair-skinned Europeans and Americans to justify the colonization and enslavement of darker-skinned people. It was used to rationalize a hierarchical system generated to leverage power and privilege and justify the resulting oppression. Simply put, racism created race.

  Most white people don’t take the time or effort to understand why the idea of race was created because it doesn’t threaten their existence or that of their children. In fact, it is usually in their best interest to promote and maintain the idea. If Black-categorized people and white-categorized people could choose which racial identity to adopt—many Hispanic people are already allowed this privilege—it would dismantle the hegemony white people have enjoyed since this nation’s birth. That I could be born white but identify as Black threatened to overturn this entire worldview (and possibly destroy white financial security and privilege as well), and white people let me know they weren’t happy about it.

  Liberal white folks who were happy to repudiate their white privilege were just as happy to throw me under the bus. From what I’ve observed, white liberals tend to believe that whatever they read in The Root or Huffington Post’s “Black Voices” section represents the perspective of the entire Black population and that to hold any other view would be racist. For them, being called racist is the ultimate taboo, and mimicking the viewpoints espoused by these mainstream Black news sources presents a safe and defensible path for someone who hasn’t experienced racism as a lived experience. By accusing me of being a cultural appropriator and a fraud, countless white liberals, including the “antiracist essayist” Tim Wise, were hoping to prove they weren’t racists but rather white allies. While I appreciated what they were trying to accomplish, I wasn’t pleased with the execution.

  Out of the thousands of emails and hundreds of text messages I received after my story went viral, half of them were from extremely pissed-off white people who were outraged by the thought that someone born white would ever “choose” to be Black. These were the sort of people who embraced the patently ridiculous idea of Black privilege. They not only denied the existence of white privilege but also believed that programs such as affirmative action actually discriminated against white people. In the eyes of these people, I was a traitor.

  The other half of the messages were from extremely pissed-off Black people who accused me of appropriating Black culture in the same way that white rappers like Eminem and Iggy Azalea had. Some felt like I’d taken jobs that should have been reserved for Black women. They were mad that I never “asked permission” to be Black. They didn’t think I’d earned the right to wear Black hairstyles. In their eyes, I hadn’t truly lived the experience and couldn’t possibly understand Blackness, and nothing I had done or ever would do could earn me membership into their group.

  I understood their anger. The racism and dehumanization they experienced daily prevented their psychological wounds from healing. Discounting my identity was a defense mechanism for many. By dissing me and invalidating my Blackness, they could underscore theirs. Colorism in the Black community also played a role. Those who said I wasn’t allowed to identify as Black because they could never be seen as white were clearly referencing the pain of having darker skin while living in a society where having lighter skin brought access to privileges. When others claimed that crossing the color line was only possible for whites, they were forgetting, just as Amber Payne had, the long history of lighter-skinned Black Americans who’d passed for white. Black women in the media were particularly hard on me. By hating on me and revoking my “right” to appear with certain Black characteristics, they succeeded in damaging my self-esteem in an attempt to bolster their self-worth, which probably says more about women’s tendency to tear each other down in general than it does about Black women in particular. My hope was that the furor surrounding me in the Black community was just a family feud that could be resolved with the aid of compassion, tolerance, and time.

  As devastating to me as the public’s reaction to my story was, it felt even worse when I saw the impact it had on others. It didn’t just upend my life but also the lives of everyone around me, and had a ripple effect that prevented justice from being served in several cases that were extremely important to me. Investigators eventually ruled Lorenzo Hayes’ death a homicide, but prosecutors determined that the officers and jail staff had “acted without malice, or evil intent,” and none of them were charged. Lorenzo Hayes’ case should have been national news. Instead, the story quickly faded away, which I guarantee would not have happened had I still been the local NAACP president and OPOC chair.

  Esther was also part of the collateral damage. Because she lived in Spokane and shared my last name, she often got stopped on the street by people who would ask if she was my sister, if she thought I was Black, if she thought I wished that I was her, if it was true that she’d been molested, and many other equally personal questions about her, me, and our family. While she was at work the day after my story blew up, someone broke into her apartment and trashed the place, destroying most of her belongings, ripping her clothes to shreds, even snapping her toothbrush in half, but nothing was taken. Fearing that a police report with her last name on it would only result in more chaos, she chose to move across town instead of calling the cops.

  Even more heartbreaking to me was the fact that she never got her day in court. After I’d been tried and convicted in the media, the district attorney in Clear Creek County, Colorado, dropped the charges against Josh. The DA didn’t come right out and say he was doing it because my credibility had been destroyed, but what else had happened between June 9, when the DA’s office sent letters to me and Esther requesting our appearances at the jury trial, and June 15, when the first hearing had been scheduled?

  With so much negativity swirling around me, I tried hard to focus on the good things in my life. I was healthy. I had two amazing sons and a wonderful sister. I was loved, not by everyone, but at least by them. If I was to stay healthy, I knew I needed to limit the amount of sorrow in my life and increase the amount of love. I felt like I simply couldn’t handle any more pain or loss. So as much sense as it made for me to opt out of having a baby, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having an abortion. My options in life had become very limited, but deciding to have a baby and giving him or her all my love was one choice I could make.

  Aware of the impact being pregnant and having a baby would have on Franklin and Izaiah, I asked them for their opinions. Both supported the idea of me keeping the baby. I frequently sought the guidance of a counselor whose advice I respected when it came to making major life decisions. Before I’d gotten the previous abortions, I’d consulted her, and she’d confirmed what I’d felt, that I shouldn’t feel guilty about terminating the pregnancies, that it was the right decision. When I spoke to her this time, she said she felt this baby’s spirit was made up of pure love and would provide a much-needed place for me to devote my nurturing energies. I’ve always liked getting confirmation in sets of three, so her advice and Franklin and Izaiah’s encouragement, coupled with my own desires, decided it for me: I was going to have a baby. The father wasn’t happy with my decision and we soon lost contact with each other, but I comforted myself knowing that parenting on my own was familiar terrain and would give me the freedom to live without having to negotiate the terms of raising a child with a disinterested co-parent.

  After losing my jobs, most of my friends, and, to a large extent,
my ability to carry on with my life purpose, my heart and spirit were wounded. I felt worn down, vulnerable, and condemned. With so much hate being directed at me, pouring all my love into my baby was one thing I could look forward to. All the energy I’d devoted to my students, the local Black community, and the causes I believed in I now channeled into bringing a new life into the world. Focusing on this one task, I was able to push any distractions and disruptive emotions aside as I set about rebuilding my life.

  Like most mothers, I wanted to keep my pregnancy a private affair for as long as possible, but in addition to questioning my identity and tearing apart my life, the press also seemed hell-bent on stealing what little privacy I had. The gossipy celebrity news website TMZ leaked news of my pregnancy by posting a screenshot that someone had lifted from my private Instagram account. If I’d been asked how I wanted to introduce my baby to the world, that wouldn’t have been my first choice, but that was the life I was now living.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Survival Mode

  HAVING FAILED TO GET MY MESSAGE ACROSS in the interviews I’d done for NBC in New York, I hoped doing an interview for a magazine might give my story the in-depth look I felt it deserved and help resurrect my image. People, Elle, and Cosmopolitan all reached out to me, but I went with Vanity Fair because I was told its editors wanted to do for me what they’d done for Caitlyn Jenner, who was featured on its June 2015 cover and given a long, sympathetic article that contained many beautiful images of her. The other reason I chose Vanity Fair was that a Black journalist named Allison Samuels was going to write the piece, and I wanted to support her work in a publication that rarely features Black women as the subject or author of its articles.