"It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness, -an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder."

-W.E.B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folks

I understand what Mr. Du Bois is talking about. I feel that I'm constantly pulled in a million different ways. There is a constant battle of what being black is and who I am, others perceptions of me as myself and then because I'm black, and my perceptions of others. And then my ultimate struggle lies in the knowledge that my perceptions aren't always Christ-like. How can I be a good or even decent Christian with these perceptions?

And by perceptions I mean prejudices.

I'm wary of large black men who, by my estimation, don't look like they have any goals or a job. I tend to think worse of black women who don't have "good" hair. I get disgusted with grossly overweight people. I tend to feel more comfortable around lighter skinned black people or those who seem to be more like me. I don't like "ghetto" black people, ghetto by my definition, and how I think their actions reflect on all black people. And I wonder how others perceive all blacks based on the actions of a few.

I'm feeling very hypocritical and exposed. I think I'll go ahead and call it a day...

Even now the insecurities and questions of my experiences plague me.

Am I good enough? Does being black hold me back? Will the fact that I don't know many goal oreinted black men keep me from getting married? Or will I marry someone not black? Am I prepared for the criticism that typically comes with interracial relationships? Do I want to bring children into that kind of environment? Why am I fearful of what others think? Whose opinion of me really matters?

And then there's the line of questioning in regards to wanting to adopt. I have no problem with the thought of loving a child with a different color of skin than my own, but can I do justice by that child? I know in my head that love transcends skin color, but do I believe that with my whole heart? Do I teach that child about their country and culture of birth? Or does my heritage and family become all they need to know about?

I think there is such a thing as innate cultural tendencies. I have a Korean friend who was adopted by a white family as an infant. The adoption agency told her parents that she, my friend, would sweat a lot and sing. Her mom thought it a racist comment until my friend sweated more than any of their biological children and she not only sang, but she'd correct others if they were off key. How could I, not being of the same culture, begin to parent such a child?

But as I verbalize questions and fears, maybe for the first time, I realize that these are questions not very different than what any parent asks. How do you parent a child with gifts and talents unlike your own? You never know until you're put in that situation, but you handle it accordingly because you love that child. I firmly believe being a parent is more than just being a DNA donor. A parent is one who will stand for, fight for, love, discipline, and nurture a child. It isn't simply a biological occurence. It is a delicate, loving, unexplainable, and intricate bond formed between an adult and a child regardless of skin color.

That's a challenge I would love to take on.

But I worry that my prejudices may stand in the way of being used in such a way.

Like I said, I grew up in middle class America with the majority of my friends being white. Any friend or crush of mine was most likely not black. There weren't many black families, especially young black families like mine, in our area. My brother teased me by saying I was more comfortable around whites than blacks, which to some degree is true. My friends in high school started calling me Samantha, what they described as an all-American white girl name, because it fit me better than my given "black girl" name. This moniker was further propagated, against the backdrop of the other blacks in my area, by my desire and drive to do well. My high school was in a small, country Texas town where many people didn't leave. Or if they did they came right back after college. I don't know if it was ever a conscious decision, but I knew that wouldn't be me. Plus, I had parents who pushed me to do well, who wanted more for me. So I took the AP classes, got involved with various organizations, got a part time job, and volunteered...I did all the right things for college applications. And was harassed by my black classmates for being "too white."

Where did I fit in? I wanted more than what I saw around me. I wanted more than what my parents had. They wanted more for me. We were infinitely blessed in that they were able to carve out a comfortable life for us, but they wanted more for us than the struggles they faced. But how do you become a successful when you feel that you don't fit anywhere? When you don't feel like you have enough or the right things to get ahead? My desire to be more put me at odds with a lot of the other black kids, but I never really felt as if I truly fit in with the other kids whose dreams were more in line with what I wanted.

How do you overcome that? Can I overcome that?

Before I get any further, let me give a little background about myself. I am the product of a teenage pregnancy; however, my mom has consistently said she was estatic to learn she was pregnant. My parents got married when I was about 5 months old. They weren't the teen parents who, as most are often portrayed, got married out of desperation or a sense of duty. They really loved each other. My brother was born about a year later. No doubt there were some lean times, but we never really knew the stresses my parents were under. As an adult, I now can better understand my parents financial worries and fears, but as a child I was blissfully unaware of everything. I just remember being very loved and safe.

Fast forward several years. After high school I attended a private, liberal arts college where I graduated with a bachelor's in Liberal Arts. I've had the opportunity to be apart of some amazing things and hope to experience more. I consider myself to be an intelligent and well educated 26 year old black woman. My brother has been married for 3 years and they have a 2 year son and an 8 month old daughter. They are, without a doubt, the cutest kids you'll ever come across:)

Despite the less than ideal start, my parents overcame their poor pasts and successfully raised my brother and I in middle class America. We may not have had everything we wanted, but I can't recall not having the things we needed...love, clothing, food, protection, stability, and faith. I have led a very blessed life. Undoubtedly I, as everyone else, have been affected by the evil of this world, by the ability of the ones you love the most to hurt you the deepest, but when I consider where I could be, how my life could have played out, and thank God above for His deliverance and love.

I remember my first experience of racism as if it were yesterday. It's one of those things that leaves an indelible mark on your life. In this depraved world this occurrence is inevitable. I've wondered if there's some correlation between when and how this wound occurs to how jaded people become as adults. I'm not sure if there is a correlation. But I do know this wound was the first time I was made aware of my skin color.

Her name was Emily. She lived in our apartment complex and she was in my brother's pre-kindergarten class. I can still see in my mind's eye where we lived, where she lived, and where we were standing when it happened. I don't remember the circumstances of what brought it about, but I will never forget the 4 year old, who parroting her parents, said she wasn't allowed to play with little black boys. I remember standing there in confusion as to why she couldn't play with my brother. I will also never forget the following day when she came back to say she couldn't play with little black girls either. I don't remember what my mom told us after Emily's announcement, but I remember the confusion, the sadness, the internal questions of what was wrong with our skin, what was wrong with me.

There are numerous moments in a person's life that are burned into their psyche never to be purged. Hopefully most are joyful and happy. Some aren't. Some of my moments include the situation with Emily, the phone call saying my best friend had died, college graduation, the call to say my sister-in-law was pregnant, holding my nephew and niece for the first time. These are moments that have the ability to form you, but it's how you respond to them, I believe, that determines the outcome of who you are.

Although the situation with Emily was very confusing it never clouded my feelings of people, white or otherwise. Maybe it was the protection of young age that prevented me from fully grasping the gravity of the situation. Or that my family was close to other white families so it wasn't an issue of thinking everyone was like Emily's parents. I don't know. But I'll never forget that moment of innocence lost.

If you know me at all you know how much of a news junkie I am. Which is how I came across this article in Newsweek. It was originally posted in April 2009, but I saw it tonight on MSN.

Let me preface this by saying as a born again Christian, I like to think I don't see skin color. Jesus didn't act any different towards people based on their skin so I try to lead a life that emulates that. But I'm not completely convinced that I do.

Recently at church there was a discussion forum for those interested in foster parenting and adoption. Because I hope to get married and raise biological and adopted children, I went to the meeting and the issue of race came up. Of the three families who interracially adopted or are seeking to adopt, my focus is one the one white family who adopted a little boy from Ethiopia. Although I didn't have the chance to ask them to further explain, one of the things the dad mentioned was their having to face prejudices they held when looking into adopting a child from Ethiopia. I don't know the specifics of what these prejudices were, but having had the chance to observe this family, they also have an older adopted son from Russia, I am without a doubt sure of their love and commitment to Christ and each other. I've had the opportunity to work in nursery with their younger son and to see their interactions and it's obvious to anyone that the love between parents and child is deep, very real, and very much mutual. This further supported my thought that love can transcend a multitude of differences, but it also brought to the fore various "questions and fears" of mine. Since that meeting, I've grown to see that these "questions and fears" are, surprisingly, prejudices I struggle with. And I will attempt to unpack them here...tomorrow.

Is there a parable that can further explain Christ's love for me in a way that I can better understand it as a single woman?

I was talking to two friends and somehow that question came up. I feel like marrieds and parents have a better hands on grasp of what it means to love. Only a parent can begin to truly understand what it was like when God had to turn His back on His Son. And only a married can relate to being pursued and desired like a bride and groom.

I don't have those experiences. But parents have an entirely different perspective as they have the ability to better understand what God must have gone through when turning away from Jesus because of the sin He took on. And the same for marrieds. Jesus' metaphors of the church being the bride and He the bridegroom mean more to one who has pursued and one who has been pursued.

I don't think He forgot about or is prejudiced against singles. I'm just wondering where is the 'ah hah!' moment that it seems marrieds and parents have that I don't as a single woman?

I was rushing from one thing to another the other day, but needed to shower. As usual, I was behind schedule and in a frantic rush which is never good when I'm trying to not cut myself as I shave. But I finished in record time and got out of the shower. Unfortunately, it was as I was towel drying my hair that I realized I hadn't actually washed me! My hair was clean and my arms and legs were shaved, but that's all I'd done. Argh. Back in the shower I went.

And that pretty much sums up the whole of my life right now.