A Redbone’s Reality by Renée Ozburn

Winner of the 2019 Los Angeles Review Literary Awards, in the category of creative nonfiction.

Final Judge: Adrianne Kalfopoulou

I am a “Redbone.” It refers to a range of skin color that makes people ask, “Are you mixed?” Going out on a limb, I’d say most black folks know “Redbone” is slang for a light-skinned African-American. But I’m not so sure about its familiarity to the vast majority of non-black Americans. There seems to be no authoritative etymology to explain its origins. I suspect “Redbone’s” more colloquial usage among blacks started with someone making up a story — maybe a blues singer. Black vernacular has a whole bucket of these idioms for those on the light to dark spectrum of skin shade. Although it isn’t necessarily a gender-specific term, I like being called “Redbone” because it’s usually said affectionately with a flirtatious smile, as in “Looking good, Redbone.”

This hereditary condition has often thrust me into a role of “splainin” the predicaments and perspectives of my entire racial group to curious Caucasians. Something about Redbones makes us more exotic (not that I’ve ever seen exotic in a mirror) than threatening to our white compatriots. Light-brown and white-looking blacks are often privy to racially provocative musings of whites who wouldn’t divulge their thoughts to just any person of color. More than once, I’ve been a recipient of the declaration, “I don’t really consider you black” right before, or after, audacious statements and questions such as, “The police would never harass blacks who weren’t breaking the law” or “Are all black people loud?”

I’ve had a lot of practice with this dynamic of identity. I can’t opt out.

I was eleven in 1963 when my parents yanked me from a comfortable, mostly black, middle-class neighborhood school in Detroit and placed me in an almost-all-white academic environment miles away from my home. My mother, a schoolteacher, had an insider’s knowledge of how white flight to the suburbs was taking talented teaching staff and financial resources with it.

I doubt there were ten students of color in my new school, but I bonded with a group of seventh grade white girls who seemed unfazed by my ethnicity. My skin shade was similar to one they might acquire after a long day at the beach. With hugs and tears, we commiserated together after hearing President Kennedy had been shot. They invited me into their circle during lunch breaks. And when a scraggly prepubescent boy called me, and a handful of other students of color “niggers,” the sting was lessened by my posse rallying around to remind me that he was stupid and “Neanderthal.” At that age I was more interested in being a social butterfly than a social justice advocate, but I do remember being vaguely aware that the well-being of my friends with darker pigment was not so generously defended.

There were more black students in my high school — but on any given day I could still walk through a crowded hallway without seeing another pupil of color. And because of my tendency to socialize more interracially than many in my ethnic group, I was subjected to some good-natured teasing on the long bus rides we took to and from our homes each weekday. In my high school yearbook, one boy wrote: “To an elite girl who loves white people…” Another inked the corner of a page: “Although you’re one of the biggest Aunt Jane Negroes (the female version of Uncle Tom) I know, you’re still a pretty hip person.” But I also remember a quiet boy with a big afro and perpetual frown who, without rancor, told me, “You are easier for them to talk to because you are softer on the eye. So use it to your advantage because sometimes they may actually pay attention.” The implication that I should use my looks to make inroads in cultural wars made me a little uncomfortable, but I understood his point.

In 1967, during my summer break from high school, race-riots erupted in Detroit. Troops were stationed near my house on a playground where I had attended kindergarten. Only a few select groups of Americans have experienced the equivalent of civil war, with armored tanks rolling down the street and bullhorns blasting orders at sundown to “Stay inside with your lights off.” Of course, my sister and I considered it a great adventure, crawling around below window sills with only the TV’s beacon for navigation.

Back in classes the following fall, I found several white friends traumatized by the riots. Despite living worlds away from any real threat from the rampage, a number of them had experienced the full-throttled hypocrisy of their parents for the first time. In addition to church-going families we had a large Jewish student body, and suddenly parents who had championed civil rights and preached empathy for the denigrated and displaced, were uttering racial epithets—and buying guns.

My idealistic friends were disillusioned and seemed sincere in their eagerness to hear my take on the disturbances. I was as close as they were going to get to a report from the front lines. My awareness of the racial inequities provoking the upheaval had grown substantially. In my circle of black teenage friends, a number of upstanding young men were thrown into police cars and jailed for walking in their own neighborhoods. And it was hard to miss the hyper-vigilance of my parents and their black cohorts around white authority. Then and now, being educated and financially secure rarely provides immunity to people of color from discrimination and harassment by rogue officials and law enforcement.

Looking back, the riots may have been a turning point for me. It was when I started owning up to the reality that sometimes I may be treated differently by whites simply because they are more comfortable with the shade of my skin. If someone is at ease talking to me about race because of my looks, I am okay with it because I get to say things they might never hear, or listen to, otherwise. I’m not particularly interested in educating those who don’t care to be informed, but as the years pass, I try not to pass up opportunities for civil discourse when questions about race arise or when racial opinions based on lack of knowledge are expressed. I’m rarely offended—although every so often I have to squelch a raised eyebrow or stifle a smirk.

Years ago I made a presentation defending affirmative action to a large law school class. After my speech, I was approached by a classmate who wanted to continue the discussion. He started by stating he had never talked to a black person about anything of substance. Calmly, but unabashedly, he confessed his belief that affirmative action sacrificed too many whites for sins they did not commit. Then he revealed his opinion that laziness was the key reason fewer minorities made it into institutes of higher learning. I suspect my being a Redbone, and a woman, played a part in his willingness to be so forthright. I was the only black female in the class, so I’ll never really know. As he spoke, I braced myself for his next disclosure, but was pleasantly surprised when he stated that my talk made him reconsider his assumptions. Whether his mind stayed open is anyone’s guess.

One of my oldest girlfriends periodically jokes that I’ve misplaced my black membership card and, on occasion, I have been accused of being overly accommodating in the face of racism. Based on imperfect self-reflection, I would say I’ve been blessed with a temperament that is not quick to perceive insult. My favorite words of wisdom are a reminder that we tend to judge others by their actions and ourselves by our intentions. But the primary reason I don’t get too bent-out-of-shape over the periodic downside of being a Redbone is that many of my deepest, most intimate, soul-bonding relationships happened because neither of us let race get in the way of our commonality.

But let it be known, I do have my limits.

My husband is white, and a few years back at a family reunion of his all-white clan, one of his highly opinionated uncles sat down next to me and started to nonchalantly chat about his time as a police officer during the Detroit riots. My guard went up. I saw a twinkle in his eye right before he uttered a purposely provocative, “Don’t you think those Negroes deserved to be knocked upside the head to teach them respect?” I stood up, emphatically declared “No” loud enough for the whole room to hear, and walked out. His adult children followed, apologizing profusely. As I exited I caught my husband smiling—followed by a nod that said, “Go get-em, Babe.”

Renée Ozburn retired from a long career as an administrative law judge to become a writer. Living in Michigan, she recently completed a novel and continues adding pieces to a personal essay collection. Her essay “Man Up and Go to Sleep” was published by BoomSpeak. She has been a fellow of the Paris American Academy’s Creative Writing Program. As often as possible, she spends time in various venues around France and the USA connecting with other writers.